


Devil's Backbone

by Wolveria



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Bucky is Bae, Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Dubious Consent, F/M, HYDRA kidnaps Reader and the Soldier does things he shouldnt, Porn With Plot, Reader is an agent of SHIELD, Rumlow is a dick, Winter Murder Baby, starts off dark and then theres feels, watch the Soldier become Bucky right before your eyes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2020-08-18 19:56:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 76,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20197276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolveria/pseuds/Wolveria
Summary: You scrambled to your feet, limbs trembling and heart pounding as your bleary eyes focused on him. The goggles were gone, but you wondered if they might have been better than seeing those cold eyes staring back at you. Bordered by black paint, the blue of his irises were almost feral, the mask contributing to the impression of a muzzled beast.It was the eyes that made your insides churn with dread.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything goes wrong, and you are taken by the Assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllooo friends and fellow travelers,
> 
> This fic was inspired by a 30 second dream sequence I had - basically the entirety of this first chapter. It's my first Bucky fic so I'm very excited.
> 
> The first part of the story is complete, comes out to just under 60k words, and I'll be posting 1-2 a week. We'll see, it all depends on how the editing goes.
> 
> This fic is darkish(?) with mild dubcon elements at the beginning. I'll add warnings chapter by chapter so we all know what we're getting into.
> 
> Thank you all, your thoughts and comments are much appreciated. Come say hi to me on my Marvel blog TrashMenofMarvel.tumblr.com
> 
> Love y'all.

0828 EST, January 9th, 2014

It should have been a straightforward op.

Relocate the Kartal family from their house in the Hamptons to a S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house. _Simple._ You had run the scenario a hundred times with other members of your team.

It should have been simple. That’s what you told yourself as you hid Mrs. Kartal and her son behind a rusted tractor, wiping Mr. Kartal’s blood out of your eyes and checking to see how much ammo was left in your P226. You had already run out of magazines for the Glock, spent in vain to try and stop the man who had attacked your convoy.

Not a squad. Not an enemy raid. Your entire team had been killed and the primary escort target had had his brains blown out inches away from your face.

All because of one man.

_“Keep low and move fast,”_ you ordered them in a hushed whisper, the woman and boy huddled together. Mrs. Kartal gave you a quick nod of understanding. _“Stay close.”_

Your goal was an old wood-paneled station wagon you had spotted earlier in one of the storage sheds. The escort route was isolated and along back roads of rural New York, and it was fortunate the attack had occurred near a storage yard for farm equipment.

At least, you prayed it was fortuitous. Considering how effectively the assassin had exploded the front and back vehicles, wiped out your team, and murdered your mission objective, you doubted he left very much to chance.

You were proven correct when a single shot rang out, and something with the force of a truck slammed into your arm. You bit down a cry as you stumbled, and then shouted, “Keep going!” as you clasped your left hand down onto the blood spurting from the wound in your bicep. It wasn’t fatal, but it would make it a bitch to aim anything, which was probably the point.

_Why doesn’t he just kill me?_ you wondered, the abandoned station wagon drawing nearer as you ran as fast as your legs would carry you. Heart hammering in your chest, you shouted at them to get inside while you opened the driver’s side door and searched for keys. There were none, but you could hotwire the old biddy without a problem. Your SO had taught you well.

_Why am I not dead?_ you questioned again as your bloodstained fingers stripped and twisted the wires together. The assassin was clearly an expert marksman, so why hadn’t he gone for a kill shot?

A surge of adrenaline coursed through your chest as the car roared to life. Somehow the battery wasn’t dead, and there was enough gas to turn the engine. Feeling hopeful you might actually survive the day, you got into the driver’s seat—

—and immediately ducked when the windshield exploded. Bullets ricocheted off the metal chassis of the car, and you yelled for the surviving members of the Kartal family to lie down across the seats.

You looked over your shoulder and caught the sight of silver metal reflecting in the sunlight. You aimed your weapon on the reflection and fired several rounds, forcing the assassin to retreat into the nearby warehouse. You turned back to Mrs. Kartal, knowing there was only one chance for them to escape.

You looked her firm in the eye and ordered, “Take the car, and you keep driving down the road. S.H.I.E.L.D. will find you and take you to a safe house.”

But Mrs. Kartal was shaking her head, her eyes wide with fear. But not at what you had suspected.

“Not S.H.I.E.L.D.! I will not go to them!”

Another bullet bounced off the hull of the car. Either the assassin was going to hit the engine block or a tire, and that would really fuck your exit strategy.

“Missus Kartal, we are _not _the bad guys! We’re trying to help you!”

The woman shook her head again, somehow still arguing with you even though she was bleeding and covered with glass from the broken windshield. Her headscarf was flecked with blood, painting the orange fabric with a gruesome tapestry.

“You don’t understand!” she shouted back at you. “My husband_ is_ a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent!”

You took a moment to return fire on the assassin, blocking your body from his line of sight with the car door, which was beginning to be pockmarked with bullet holes.

“What are you talking about?” you shouted over your shoulder. “Ma’am, your husband isn’t one of ours! He works for the Russians!”

This woman was really starting to piss you off, but her next words brought you up short.

“Your superiors lied to you! S.H.I.E.L.D. is not what you think it is! Why do you think we contacted the FBI and not you?”

That _had _struck you as odd. Orders had come down to the STRIKE team to escort the Kartal family, but only after the feds had handed the Kartal case over to S.H.I.E.L.D. Some kind of jurisdictional dispute you didn’t understand. All you knew was Rumlow had been pretty pissed the FBI had been involved to begin with.

A bullet sparking off the edge of the door next to your head brought you back to reality, and you yelled to her, “Then drive to the White House for all I care, just get the _hell_ _out of here!”_

And with that, you rolled from the protection of the car and fired what was left of your handgun at the assassin’s hiding place. You were relieved to hear the squeal of tires behind you, followed by a spray of gravel as Mrs. Kartal, hopefully, got her and her son to safety.

_About fucking time,_ you thought as you crouched on one knee in the dirt, continuing to shoot at the opening where the assassin was hiding, your bullets knocking pieces out of the metal siding. You weren’t going to stop firing and let the assassin get his shot at the retreating vehicle.

You pulled the trigger, again and again, until there was no sound but an empty clicking. You tried a few more times simply out of habit, but you knew it was over. You were out of ammo, and most likely the bastard knew it. But you were determined to die on your feet, with what little dignity you had left, so you rose to a standing position.

As if mirroring your movements, the assassin did the same, stepping out of the shadows and into the bright afternoon light. He braced his rifle against his shoulder and strode toward you as if he didn’t have a goddamn care in the world. His stride, the broad set of his shoulders, the way he swaggered that was almost graceful—it was a powerful sort of confidence that shook you like nothing had before.

There had been fear, sure. You had put your life on the line dozens of times. But this… this was existential _dread._ This was watching your demise approaching in leather boots and a dark mask. His metal-plated left arm reflected the sunlight with a deadly sort of beauty, like the gleam of light on a knife.

He was Death personified. And you were frozen, helpless, with an empty gun.

The pistol dropped from your numb fingers, your hand going back up to staunch the wound in your upper arm. And still he approached, his dark goggles giving him the impression of some kind of insectoid alien bearing down on you, inhuman and merciless.

You shut your eyes. You couldn’t bear to look at him a moment longer. Nothing but the crunch of his boots and your breath, ragged, in your ears.

All of your years at the Academy, followed by countless hours of the most brutal training available for field agents. And yet, here you were, shutting your eyes like a child waiting for the monster under the bed to vanish.

But this monster was very real, and he would most definitely not vanish. Except… you could no longer hear his footsteps. And you were still alive.

Against your wishes, you slowly opened your eyes—and flinched. The assassin was standing right in front of you, so close that you were looking directly at the muzzle of his mask, a few inches from your nose. Your gaze involuntarily trailed upward, and your breathing stopped. Even with the black goggles obscuring his eyes, you knew he was staring at you with such overwhelming intensity that it literally made the blood rush from your head.

You half-wondered if you were going to faint.

_Why aren’t you killing me?_ The question was distant, panicked in the back of your mind. _Why am I not dead?_

With one swift motion, the assassin swung the strap of the rifle across his shoulder and put it across his back. And then he grabbed you by the shoulder, spun you around and wrapped his metal arm around your neck as his other hand held your head immobile.

You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t even swallow with the hard plates against your neck. He wasn’t killing you; it was much worse than that. He was choking you out. He was trying to render you unconscious.

_No!_ your mind screamed as you dug your fingers into his metal arm, scrabbling against the smooth bits of surface. _No! No!_

But your struggles were futile as soon as they began. He held you hard against his chest, pinning you with very little effort. Your heart was thunderous in your ears, greedy for oxygen that would not come.

The edges of your vision receded. And the world went quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader awakens with questions but finds there are no answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a real quick update before the Winter Soldier makes his big return next chapter. Thank you everyone for your encouraging comments. I love hearing about your ideas about why she was spared/taken :)
> 
> Content warning: Torture

Time: Unknown, January 9th, 2014

You awoke with a start, limbs jerking as you opened your eyes to find a bare concrete ceiling above you. While remaining completely still, you took quick stock of yourself: you were tired, thirsty, cold, and your upper right arm throbbed in time with your heartbeat. Slowly and with great care, you sat up and panned your head to assess your new situation.

You were in a small room of some kind, an isolation cell by the looks of it. A single bulb behind a cage illuminated your stark surroundings. There was barely anything in the way of furnishings, a combination sink/toilet, a thin sleeping mat, and a door made up its entirety. It was steel and had a small square window in the top.

The more you examined the cell, the more convinced you were that you were in an actual prison or some kind of correctional facility. The air was stale, chilly, and carried a sour hint of mold.

You looked down at your arm and winced. You had been stripped of your vest and long-sleeve shirt, leaving you only in your black tank and tac pants. You could see the wound clearly, a nasty gash tacky with dried blood, and while the wound itself had clotted it was clear it had been left untreated.

There was no way to tell how much time had gone by—nor if you were still in New York. You weren’t hungry and your thirst wasn’t enough to convince you that more than a couple of hours had passed. But you had no doubt that HQ would be looking for you by now.

You had reasonable expectations when it came to your chance of survival. Whoever had taken you had also divested you of your radio and cell phone. If they were smart, they would have done so at the scene before taking you away.

No, not they. _Him._ He was the one who had taken you. The assassin with the metal arm.

You shuddered, and not just from the winter chill that pervaded the room. You didn’t know who the hell he worked for—the Russians or someone else. There were, however, only two reasons he would have spared your life: to pry you for information, or for a hostage exchange. And S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t negotiate with terrorists. Every agent going into the field knew that. It was expected that if you were caught behind enemy lines and you couldn’t be extracted, you kept your mouth shut until the bitter end.

And that’s what you intended to do, but in the meantime, you weren’t going to sit idly by. You searched your cell, trying to find anything you could turn into a weapon or a lock pick. Not that it would do you much good; the steel door only had an indent with a small handle inside. There was no lock to open from this end, but that didn’t mean something as small as a paperclip couldn’t be useful. In your hands, it could easily be a weapon.

But nothing within your cell presented itself as a tool, so you paced. And thought. And tried to ignore the throbbing in your arm.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had access to every sort of intelligence available on the planet. Satellites with various imaging filters. Access to highway traffic cams. The vehicles themselves would have sent an automated distress signal as soon as they had been damaged. _It was only a matter of time._ Your team had been massacred. They would know you had been taken, and you had no doubt your SO would use every resource available to find you. HQ might have already dispatched a team, and they would be staging an extraction at any moment.

The door slammed open and three men, dressed in paramilitary gear, entered your cell. You were on your feet with your back to the wall in one swift motion, your heart racing as you spread your feet and placed your arms in a readied combat stance.

The first man to reach you had his throat punched and his head slammed into the wall. The second earned a knee to the gut followed by an elbow to the face. But the third man was ready, and the stun baton he slammed into your gut ended the fight decisively as you crumbled to the ground, gasping for air.

They dragged you out, holding you by the arms until you were able to walk on your own again. Even then, they pulled you along at a brutal pace as you were led down corridor after corridor. More isolation cells lined the walls, but they were leading you somewhere else. You knew you had arrived at your destination when they pulled you through an open door and came to an abrupt stop.

It was a mostly bare room, containing a table full of medical instruments, a computer terminal, and people wearing lab coats. But the centerpiece of the room was a particular chair. It had restraints along the arm and leg rests, but what drew your eye was the machine behind it. There was a mismatched headpiece hanging above it, its proportions large enough to fit around a human head. Just looking at it made you shiver.

It was only a piece of metal, but it looked predatory. And hungry.

One of the men in a lab coat gave the soldiers a nod. They tugged you forward and you balked, the bottom of your boots skidding over the tile floor. Your struggles were overcome and they shoved you into the chair, holding you in place until metal restrains automatically locked around your wrists and ankles.

Your voice was raspy and strangled as you spoke, false bravado trying to mask the trembling in your hands.

“Where am I? What do you want?”

No one answered. The men in the black fatigues left and only the lab coats remained. The chair was faced toward the door so you could see the armed guards located at the two entrances. Wherever you were, these people knew what they were doing.

_How did we miss this?_ You pressed your lips together, not allowing them to tremble as your heart beat frantically in your chest. You tried to remember as many details of their faces as you could on the off-chance you survived long enough for a debriefing. _How did we not know about this place? These people?_

The fact you had no idea who they were scared you. S.H.I.E.L.D. was the most powerful and effective intelligence agency on the planet. Either they had been blind-sided… or your S.O. had been keeping major intel from you.

You weren’t sure which frightened you worse.

The lab coats inserted an IV catheter into your hand and you tried not to flinch. The metal restraints were unyielding and there was no way you were breaking free of them. Your best shot at escape would be to wait until you were freed, whenever that would be. The guards at the door were the most dangerous presence in the room, but you hadn’t neglected to notice the emergency switch on the wall directly opposite you either.

_Take out the guns first, then disable the scientists so they can’t raise the alarm._

It was a good plan. But you knew as soon as the IV drip began to flow, the plan was fucked. You didn’t know what they were giving you, but it was a cocktail that left you drugged and euphoric. It was almost nice, pleasant and calming, until they slipped a rubber mouthpiece between your teeth.

You were barely cognizant of the metal pieces they lowered onto your head. One doctor, the head asshole if his pinched face and obnoxious bow tie were anything to go by, held his face close to your ear. He began to speak, his tone low and even, never once varying.

“Take a deep breath.

Calm your mind.

You know what is best.

What is best is that you comply.

Compliance will be rewarded.”

Then the screaming started. And it took some time, drowning as you were in a haze of electric agony, to realize that the screaming was your own.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finds herself confronting the assassin once more, and the encounter leaves her bewildered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: Intimidating sexual tension, brief suicidal ideation

The torture seemed to go on forever. There was no end in sight. No one to help you. No one who even knew where you were. There was only you and the white-hot agony that was so much worse than simple pain. It threaded down into your thoughts, wrenched at your memories, conflagrated your hopes and dreams and left them as piles of ash.

You still didn’t understand what they had done to you. Even as you were dragged back into your cell and dumped on the concrete floor like a garbage sack, you couldn’t come to terms with what had happened. It felt like someone had taken your brain out of your skull, mashed it in their hands like dough, and shoved it back in.

You crawled to the toilet and managed to pull yourself over the rim before vomiting into the bowl. You continued this until your stomach was empty and your limbs were too weak to hold you up. Collapsing onto the hard ground, you remained there, looking up at the ceiling and the single bulb behind its protective cage.

If you found metal object thin enough to reach between the bars, you could end it all, right here. Break the bulb and make contact with the socket, hopefully electrocuting yourself and stopping your heart before the circuit breakers blew.

Imagining your own death was the only thing that brought you comfort. But only death by your own hand, not by theirs. Or _his._

You had caught a glimpse of him as they had dragged you from that white room; he had been watching from the shadows, his face obscured by darkness rather than a mask. You could remember seeing his eyes, cold and colorless in the pale light. It was exactly how you imagined the face of Death would look like.

And yet, when you had passed him in the corridor, you remembered doing… something. What was it? You had said something to him. Pled with him. Begged.

_“Please…”_

You closed your eyes as the memory came back to you, your stomach churning again at the fact that your mind was so disjointed and rattled that you had forgotten the moment to begin with. You had quietly pled with the assassin, not for clemency, but for a swift end.

His cold eyes had watched you but he had neither moved nor spoke. Your reprieve had been denied.

Something was horribly wrong. It wasn’t the torture, or the isolation, or even the capture that had you questioning everything. They had tortured you but they hadn’t asked any questions. Not a single one.

Nothing about Mrs. Kartal and her son. Nothing about S.H.I.E.L.D. operations and intelligence. You were Level 6 and had access to most operational intelligence, especially within STRIKE. But whoever had taken you had no desire to pry any of that intelligence from your head.

There was only one reason for that: they didn’t need the information because they already had it.

S.H.I.E.L.D. had a mole.

It was the only explanation that made sense. No one outside of STRIKE knew about the escort route, the number of team members, or even who the mission priority was. No one had that information except the team itself, your SO, and the heads of the organization.

With great care so as not to jostle your stomach and start heaving again, you dragged yourself up the side of the toilet until you could grip the edges of the sink and turn it on. The water looked clean enough, thank Christ, so you drank your fill and splashed cool water on your face, trying to shake the fatigue from your mind. Whatever they had drugged you with was wearing off, and while it was nice to escape from the throbbing pain in your arm you needed to be sharp and alert. There would come another opportunity, a moment where they would slip up, and you would seize it with both fucking hands.

Once you had your fill of water, there was nothing left to do but sleep. So sleep you did, shoring up your strength and saving your energy for the next time the men in black fatigues came to your cell door.

But when you next awoke at the sound of the door opening, it wasn’t them who had come for you. It was _him._

You scrambled to your feet, limbs trembling and heart pounding as your bleary eyes focused on him. The goggles were gone, but you wondered if they might have been better than seeing those cold eyes staring back at you. Bordered by black paint, the blue of his irises were almost feral, the mask contributing to the impression of a muzzled beast.

It was the eyes that made your insides churn with dread.

His gaze was so focused, so intense, as if he was waiting for something. But otherwise, he did not make a move towards you and hadn’t since he had entered your cell.

After a long, heavy moment of thick silence, it was becoming clear that he wasn’t going to say anything at all.

_“What do you want?”_ you rasped out. Your voice was raw, abused from all the screaming you had done.

He didn’t respond. He only watched, staring through his curtain of dark hair. His gaze never wavered from your face.

You rushed at him, not thinking, fueled by pure instinct. The space was small, confined, and with your smaller size you had the advantage over his muscled bulk, but only if you could get around him and to the door.

You never got that far.

The swing to his ear was parried aside, the kick to his knee diverted. You tried to ram your knee into his chest, a move that caught most opponents off-guard, and you did manage to connect with his torso. He grunted and stumbled back, but recovered too fast for you to be prepared.

The assassin grabbed you by the shoulder and slammed you into the wall, chest-first, pulling your right arm behind your back.

You gave a strangled scream as the wound in your arm tore anew, but you bit down on the cry, refusing to show how much pain he was causing. Your cheek was pressed into the wall, your entire body pinned in place as he leaned his considerable weight against you. You could hear the breathing through his mask, muffled and raspy, and it as calm and steady while yours was frantic and shallow.

“What do you _want_ from me?” you demanded hoarsely. You tried to kick off from the wall, throw him off-balance, but it was like trying to topple a tank engine. It was not going to happen, and the longer you struggled the faster you wore out.

Finally, you gave up the struggle entirely.

“If you’re going to kill me,” you said, voice low and strained as you gasped for breath, “then just… do it already.”

Instead of a verbal response, he spun you by the shoulder and shoved back against the wall. His right arm kept tightly clasped around your right wrist as his metal forearm pressed against the base of your throat, holding you in place.

Not that you could have moved if you had wanted to. His eyes pinned you in place just as effectively, staring straight through you as if you were nothing. He could crush you so easily, push down on your sternum and grind your ribs to dust.

The hard lines of his face, the severe curve of his brow, and the surprisingly thick eyelashes were all becoming obscure. Not from lack of air this time, but from the tears filling your eyes. They stung, but not as badly as the shame in your gut. You had graduated in the top tier of your class at the Academy. Handpicked by Rumlow himself, you were one of the toughest agents to join STRIKE since Romanoff.

And here you were. Trying to blink away the tears, failing as they slipped down your cheeks. Rumlow would have been disgusted to see the weak, pathetic coward he had taken under his wing.

_“Do it,”_ you whispered, voice trembling as you looked up at the assassin’s icy blue eyes. _“Kill me.”_

You could see him more clearly now that the tears of your shame and fear had been shed. It was the only reason you saw his gaze waver, his laser-focused stare shifting down your face. It was so imperceptible you nearly missed it.

But what happened next was impossible to miss.

The assassin released your injured arm. Before you could try and wrench yourself free of his metal hold, he raised his bare hand towards your face. You flinched hard, like a wounded animal about to be struck, but he tightened his grip on the base of your throat to hold you still.

You couldn’t escape bodily, so you shut your eyes tight, waiting for whatever horrible torture he was going to exact on you. And then your eyes sprang open when you felt something soft and warm graze the ridge of your cheekbone.

Carefully, you looked out of your peripheral vision to see he was touching your face with his fingertips. No, not just your face, the wet trail down your cheeks where your tears had fallen. His touch was shockingly gentle, almost tender.

His breathing, a moment ago stable and methodical, was now uneven. Strained. It even hitched when you turned your head enough to meet his eye. And that’s when you saw the second startling thing. His pupils were blown, large and black. Gone was the cold, mechanical gaze. They were no less intense than before, but you felt like they actually _saw _you now.

He released you so quickly you slid several inches down the wall before your trembling legs caught you. You watched with frozen breath as he strode across the cell, shoved opened the door, and slammed it behind him.

You remained against the wall as you pulled yourself upright, staring at the door without blinking. The only parts of you that dared to move were your shoulders rising and falling with each shaky breath, and the hand that reached up to touch where his fingers had grazed across your skin.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader begins to succumb to her injuries. The assassin won't leave her be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So i lied about the smut apparently. That will be NEXT chapter. I had to cut this one down bc it got too long. I promise i won't tease y'all much longer. To make up for it have some freshly baked whump/wound care.

Time: Unknown, Date: Unknown

The second time the men come to your cell, your struggles were far weaker than before. You had a suspicion as to why, and it was confirmed by the lab coats as they began to pump drugs into the IV catheter in your hand.

“She has a fever of one-hundred and two.”

“Irrelevant. She’s nearly ready for the procedure.”

“Will she survive it if that wound festers?”

“If the procedure succeeds, she will be able to survive more than that. Proceed.”

_“Hail HYDRA.”_

The words washed over you without meaning; the narcotics had already hit your bloodstream, and you floated in the euphoria before the pain began, shooting lightning into your skull and down into the roots of your very being.

When next you opened your eyes you were back in your cell, lying on the mat with the echoes of screams in your ears. You couldn’t remember how you got there, and you weren’t sure if the memory of screams were yours or the remnants of a bad dream.

Seeing as how your life had become a nightmare, maybe the answer didn’t matter.

The only gauge you had in regards to time was when they took you into the white room. It contained high, narrow windows, covered with wire and opaque with rippling glass, but you could see the sunlight as distant and untouchable as hope of rescue. Had you been there for one day? Two? By the way your wound was inflamed and clearly infected, you guessed this was your second day of captivity.

You remained on the mat, unmoving as you drifted in and out of sleep, barely able to stay awake in the midst of your fever. A part of you was relieved—it meant the torture couldn’t go on forever. Eventually you would succumb to the infection and the pain would end. Unfortunately, sepsis was a terrible way to die, and it was going to get rough before the end.

When you heard the door open, you struggled to lift your eyelids. It seemed too soon for them to take you back to the white room. And indeed, you didn’t see the men in black fatigues. Instead, there was a single man carrying some kind of white box. It was difficult to focus on the blurry figure, but you saw the shine of metal reflected in the bare bulb overhead. You shivered.

_“No…”_ you moaned as he drew near. You tried to sit up, back away from him, but you only flinched as your body rioted in pain. _“Don’t…”_

He gripped you roughly under your shoulder blades and hooked his metal arm under your knees. You struggled to free yourself, or at least you tried, the movement came out as little more than a weak tremble.

The assassin set you down on the lid of the toilet. You nearly toppled over but he kept his normal hand on your left shoulder as he pried open the box with his metal fingers. You tried to focus on his face, noting something was different. The black paint was gone. Although the mask remained, he looked less… monstrous, somehow. Almost human.

But when his cold blue eyes met yours, you still felt as though you were being stared down by a predator.

You watched in mute apprehension, too tired to speak and knowing he wouldn’t answer anyway, as he rooted around in the medical kit. You couldn’t understand why he was here and what he wanted, even after he dampened a cloth in the sink and began to clean your wound.

You tried to escape from his unwanted touch, convinced he was just there to hurt you, but he held you firm with his hand on your shoulder. You looked down at the injury and quickly looked away, your stomach roiling at the sight of pus leaking from the inflamed flesh. You groaned, fighting to swallow down the burning bile in your throat.

The assassin worked without word or a second glance at you. He wasn’t brutal but he was clinical, treating your wound as if he might have been servicing a car. You didn’t know why that oddly domestic image popped into your head, but it caused hysterical laughter to rise in your throat. You swallowed that down, too.

Helpless in his grasp, all you could do was wait. He eventually finished cleaning the wound and tossed aside the soiled gauze and cloth, and then he pulled out a small canister and sprayed foam onto the gash. It burned but then began to fizzle and bubble before disappearing completely. You didn’t know what it was, some kind of disinfectant spray, but nothing like you had ever seen before.

The assassin didn’t give you any warning or time to prepare as he squeezed the edges of your wound closed with his metal fingers. You gave a muffled cry but he held you still as he squirted surgical glue across the edges of the wound. He kept his hands in place, on your arm and on your shoulder, and you closed your eyes as the room began to spin. You kept them shut even as you felt him press a gauze bandage to your arm.

_Why?_ you wondered weakly as your head buzzed unpleasantly. _Why is he doing this?_

The sensation of dizziness soon passed, and you opened your eyes to find icy blue ones mere inches away. You sucked in a breath and held it, unable to function with him staring at you so intently, your frazzled thought scattered like a swarm of disturbed insects.

When you thought about it later, you blamed your feverish state for what you did next. You lifted your free hand and reached towards his face, slowly and trembling.

You wanted to see. You _had_ to know there was a person under there. A living man and not a supernatural creature of destruction and death.

Your fingertips grazed the polycarbonate mask covering his jaw, feeling the hard weave under your touch. But you didn’t get far enough to unhook the mask; the assassin snatched your wrist, squeezing enough to immobilize you and almost hard enough to hurt.

His breathing was erratic again. And his eyes were dark, a ring of blue fire edging the blown pupils.

_I need to see,_ your feverish mind demanded. In your borderline delirious state, you were convinced that there would be a set of wolfish jaws hidden underneath, teeth sharp and gleaming with carnivorous intent.

It filled you with dread, but you needed to know. Needed to see.

_I need to see the monster._

But you never got that far. The assassin reached into the kit, pulled out as syringe, and jabbed the needle into the meat of your right thigh. It went straight through the fabric of your pants and directly into the muscle.

You cried out and jerked back your hand, preparing for the next attack, but he had already removed the needle. He grabbed you by the waist and hauled you up as if you weighed nothing at all.

_“Asshole!”_ you screamed, voice breaking painfully in your dry throat. “Haven’t you fucking drugged me enough! Let me go! Don’t _touch me!”_

The assassin ignored your shouts and your soft, pathetic punches to his arms and kicks at his legs. He deposited you on the thin mat, practically dumping you there like a load of laundry, and then he turned, shoved the soiled supplies into the kit, and headed toward the door.

_“Dick!”_ you shrieked at his retreating back as he slammed the door behind him.

Hot tears flooded your eyes as you frantically rubbed at the burning spot on your thigh. An objective part of you knew the infection was making you delirious, unable to keep your emotions in check. But it didn’t change the fact you were having a small breakdown, not from the physical pain but the fact your feelings were… well, _hurt._ The men who tortured you, who dragged you from your cell, _they_ were enemies you would kill without hesitation. But as soon as the man with the metal arm had showed you an ounce of human decency, your thick defenses had begun to shift out of place.

You knew the signs of mental deterioration from isolation and torture. You should have seen it coming, but you hadn’t expected it to happen so quickly. And yes, maybe a small arrogant part of you had thought you were tough enough to resist the effects of such abuse.

_It won’t happen to me._ Clearly, it was happening, and your previous self-assuredness meant fuck-all now. No one was immune to the effects of psychological torture. No one. It just took some longer to break than others, and perhaps you had reached your shattering point.

It was the only explanation that made sense as to why you would have tried to touch that… that _beast._

You waited to feel the narcotic effects of whatever he had shot you with, but you felt nothing at all. Exhausted, maybe, but that was your normal state of being in this hellhole. So you lied down and waited for the inevitable torment.

Instead, you fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader hits the limit of what she thinks she can take. The assassin shows her just how wrong she is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Winter Smut is here! Rejoice!
> 
> Chapter warnings: Mild dubcon, anxiety attacks

The next time you opened your eyes, you had the sense you hadn’t slept for a full night. Regardless, you felt… better. Your fever had broken, your arm no longer throbbed, and you were alert and clear-headed.

The assassin hadn’t injected you with anything harmful. He had given you a shot of _antibiotics._

You pressed your lips tight together as your eyes burned again, shame creeping through you at the pathetic reaction. He had been instructed to keep you alive, that was all. It didn’t mean anything, and it certainly didn’t make up for all of your dead teammates. It didn’t erase Mr. Kartal’s grisly death, or the fact the assassin had brought you here in the first place.

But… his actions didn’t make sense, either. The lab coats had been more than happy to let your wound rot. Or had that been a hallucination? A combination of fever and pain and narcotics? Sometimes you wondered if the torture in and of itself wasn’t a delusion. Nothing in that room felt real.

But _he_ did. The assassin felt very real.

The seconds and minutes and hours ticked by, unmarked and discomforting. You remembered learning about the psychological effects of captivity from Rumlow’s grueling training. He had taught you how to escape bindings—everything from cable ties to handcuffs to rope cords. You knew how to disable a stronger, armed opponent using only your hands and legs. You could hotwire pretty much anything with an engine. Or navigate through rough, remote terrain to find your way back to civilization.

But with all of that training, Rumlow had made it clear there was no way to truly prepare for _this_. When you were taken by the enemy, it wasn’t the pain or degradation or fear that was the true opponent. It was time. The passage of it was like a constant pressure on your thumbnails and eyeballs. It kept you suspended above a pit of vipers. It held you down on a bed of nails. There was no respite to be found from the constant, innumerable seconds that drew out your misery like the grim note of a funeral dirge.

Aside from time, isolation was the most effective tool in a torturer’s kit. It was cheap, easy, and worked surprisingly fast. The human mind was not built to withstand long periods of separation from the world, and it was tantamount to psychological destruction to keep someone in an isolation cell for more than a few hours.

By your guess, you were beginning day three. The need for human interaction was pushing up against your terror of the guards who would drag you out of your cell, and the doctors who treated you as nothing more than a scientific curiosity. At this point, it might have been a relief to be taken back to the white room just so you could see that life went on outside your tiny prison.

You curled into a tighter fetal position, despair penning you in, threatening to consume you. _Where are you?_ The silent prayer was meant for the remaining members of the team that hadn’t been part of the convoy. But mostly, it was for Rumlow. Your mentor, your guide. The one who was supposed to protect and keep you safe. Why haven’t he found you yet? Why was he letting this happen to you?

You squeezed your eyes shut, forcing the tears at bay. You knew Rumlow would be doing everything possible to find you, but if he had been able to rescue you… he would have done so by now. There would be no extraction, no last minute stay of execution. You were going to die here. Alone. Forgotten except for a small plaque at the Triskelion Memorial. It would be the only legacy you leave behind.

You had no family outside of S.H.I.E.L.D. No one left to mourn you but your team. And most of them were gone, too.

_Oh, God. How did this happen? How had it gone so wrong?_ A small wail escaped your throat as you curled your fingers in your hair, digging your nails into your scalp. _I don’t want to die like this. I don’t want to die. Please. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die._

As if in response to your desperate prayers, the door to your cell opened with a loud _clang_. Peering out from your protective cocoon, you watched as a broad silhouette filled the doorway, the assassin stepping forward into the bland light. You flinched despite your best efforts not to, watching as he stopped just inside the cell and closed the door behind him.

He was holding a plastic food tray. No one had bothered to feed you since your arrival, probably because you could barely keep down water let alone anything else. But now your stomach rumbled as you took in the scent of peas, corn, and mashed potatoes.

You quickly rubbed your stinging eyes and pulled yourself into an upright position, your cramped muscles protesting at the movement. You studied him warily; suspicious of his intentions despite the fact he was only armed with the tray of food. His expression was unreadable behind the dark mask covering most of his face. His eyes were as cold and intense as before, making you feel small and insignificant.

Your gaze flickered down to the plastic tray in his hands. A part of you retained hope that he hadn’t come for a nefarious purpose and was simply trying to keep you alive. Another part of you prepared for this to be a wicked trap.

But the assassin came no closer. He set the tray on the floor and toed it with his boot, sending it across the cell and directly in front of you. After he straightened to his full height and didn’t move from his spot or retreat from the room, the message he sent was clear.

_I’m going to stand here until you eat._

The presumption of his presence and your complete lack of control in this situation turned your previously wary gratitude into humiliation and anger.

You grabbed the edge of the tray and threw it as hard as you could, hurling it across the cell to smash into the wall right next to him, splattering food all over the concrete bricks. Childish satisfaction curled in your chest. You might not have had control of much, but you could choose whether or not to eat.

“Fuck you,” you snapped. The assassin hadn’t moved a hair, even when the tray had hit the wall just a few inches to his right. Not so much as a flutter of his eyelashes.

“They’re going to kill me anyway,” you spat as you rose to your feet, leaning against the wall to help your weakened muscles. “Or worse. So fuck your food and fuck your medicine and _fuck _your fake-fucking-compassion.”

You were panting now, unable to get enough air as your heart was racing in your chest. The anger felt empowering and it burned away your fear.

“If you had any actual mercy, you’d end it. Right now.”

He didn’t respond, or move, or even blink. He was a masked statue, observing you through his curtain of hair. But his eyes were focused and they stared intently at your face. He gave every indication that he could hear you, but he didn’t say a word. His nonverbal, looming presence was starting to become really fucking aggravating.

_“Say something!”_

You winced at the sound of your scream, ragged and too loud in the cramped space. It also hurt to hear yourself sounding so shaken and unhinged, but you were well past the end of your rope.

The assassin remained silent.

With a cry, you sprang from the wall and pulled your fist back to jab it at his throat. He easily dodged your blow and looped his arms around your waist, and in the blink of an eye you traded places as you crashed into the door.

He pinned you against it, both flesh and metal arms equally unyielding in their grip around your torso. You snarled and fought like a rabid animal, banging your knee painfully against the steel door. He pulled you away before you could hurt yourself again, and dragged you further into the cell.

You cried out between your teeth as your injured arm throbbed, but you refused to surrender, digging your fingers into his arms and trying to hook your feet around his calves.

His response was swift and decisive; the assassin pinned down both of your arms with his right arm, and curled his cold, metal fingers around your throat. He applied pressure and you stilled immediately, your muscles going completely rigid. It wasn’t a full-body lock, but your limbs behaved as if it was, the dangerous pressure on your throat very effective at ending your struggles.

You panted harshly, unable to control the tremors as adrenaline, exhaustion, and pain racked your muscles. And there was _fear_. Your rage had been short-lived, dying before it had fully matured, and now you were as helpless as that moment he had first hooked his metal arm around your neck after the convoy attack, choking you unconscious.

His metal fingers cradled your throat—cool to the touch except in the places where the fingerless glove covered its surface. It felt almost pleasant against your flushed skin; a fucked up dichotomy to feel towards something that could crush your neck in an instant.

But he didn’t squeeze any harder. He wasn’t cutting off your air. It was almost as if he were taking deliberate care _not_ to hurt you. Perhaps that should have told you something, but at the moment, all you could focus on was trying to breathe while trapped in the jaws of the beast.

He kept your arms pinned with the arm wrapped across your chest, but the metal appendage at your throat moved very slightly. So slowly at first you thought he was simply readjusting his grip. But then the breath caught in your throat when you realized his thumb was gently stroking the side of your neck.

You flinched, tried to wrench yourself away, but his right arm bore down on you to hold you in place. He needn’t have bothered, really. You weren’t going anywhere. All you could do was stand there, trapped in a steel grip of metal and muscle.

The feel of his unwanted caress on your skin was having an effect. Your cramped muscles began to loosen and your breathing became easier. It was like… an odd calm washing over you. You were unable to move, held securely in place, but instead of feeling trapped or claustrophobic, you felt… almost relaxed.

You had no control; the illusion of that was gone. It was all _his_, and he could hurt you however he wanted.

Except… he wasn’t hurting you. Whatever he was doing was weird and strange and probably would have scared any normal person, but you were more confused than afraid. Your heart rate was starting to even out, though it did pick up again when his flesh arm loosened its hold across your chest. His metal hand remained around your throat so you didn’t move, at least voluntarily; you gave a start when you felt his fingers trail across your stomach, sending gooseflesh across your arms and legs.

_The fuck?_

When he slipped his fingers under the hem of your shirt, you balked. The tender touch was so sharply different than the pain and misery you’d experienced that your brain couldn’t grasp it and your body resisted. But he held you firmly in place, rendering your struggles inert, and soon they stopped altogether. His fingertips ghosted across your skin, a feather-light caress that sent a thrill through your gut.

You closed your eyes, almost overwhelmed by the simple gesture that left you feeling warm and liquid in his arms. In response to your relaxing muscles, his touch became heavier, his fingers now tracing over your ribcage and down your abdomen.

At the same moment your body relaxed further, warning sirens sounded in your head. The klaxon urged you to run, to fight, to do_ something_ other than stand there like a deer in the headlights. But your body didn’t listen, as if he were holding you under a spell.

He lifted his hand higher and paused. His breath, muffled behind the mask, seemed to catch and then start again at an uneven pace. You weren’t the only one affected by what was happening, and that thought made your body react just as surely as his fingers did. The relaxation of your muscles turned into an aching heat, traveling over your skin and leaving you awash in goosebumps.

When his fingers finally ghosted over your nipple, it was erect and aching. A small shock went through your body at the warm contact, straight between your legs, and you had to trap the moan at the back of your throat before it could escape.

Your plan to remain silent was ruined as soon as he rubbed his thumb across the sensitive skin. You let out a tiny moan, your cheeks heating with shame at the needful sound.

He froze. You did as well, afraid he would continue. Afraid he wouldn’t. You were torn in two different directions, your mind a confused mess while your body yearned for the touch of his fingers. This place had brought only misery and pain, and what was happening now was very, very pleasant. Your body didn’t want it to stop, and in fact, seemed to crave it more intensely with each passing second.

In the end, your overwhelming need for comfort and human touch won at the cost of what remained of your dignity. The tiny voice screaming in your head was swiftly silenced as you closed your eyes and surrendered. You were already held flat against the hard planes of his body, but you managed to draw closer by leaning your head back against his shoulder, arching your neck and fully exposing it to the grip of his metal hand.

It was enough.

When his thumb crested your hard nipple again, you didn’t stifle the moan but released it, a quiet, breathless sound. This seemed to encourage him and his movements became firmer, making your heart race as warmth pooled low in your belly. You wondered if he could make you orgasm just from this, but he was being careful. Almost delicate. And you needed more if you were going to chase the relief you sought.

Your ass pressed against his crotch before you could stop yourself, surprised to feel the erection there, hard and wanting.

Immediately, he pulled his hand from under your shirt and grabbed your hip, holding you still. You whined low in your throat, frustrated as you rubbed your thighs together. You should have been ashamed, goddamn horrified by your actions, but all you could think about was how your clit throbbed and you yearned for pressure on it.

When his fingers pressing into your hip bones didn’t still your movements, the metal hand on the base of your throat did. He slightly squeezed and held you firm against his chest, causing you to give a stifled moan. You flushed when you realized the same action that had scared you a moment ago now made you even more aroused.

_This is so fucked up. **So** fucked up._ But even as you thought the words you remained pliant in his grip. He was warm against your back, even through the thick leather harness, and you felt like you might burst into flame. It should have been terrifying, how quickly you were being consumed by this, and he had done barely more than touch you.

Too long, he was taking _too long_. You were beginning to come back to your senses, realizing the dangerous, compromising position you were in. But then he lowered his hand and all reason flew from your mind.

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your tac pants but above your underwear. You didn’t so much as breathe as his fingertips traced along the cloth until they reached your pelvis.

You thought you might cry from the anticipation—you ached so much for relief it was almost painful, your body responding to his fingers as if you were the strings on a guitar, plucked and quivering. You didn’t question why that was. You didn’t question anything. There was only his touch and your overwhelming need to be touched.

When he slid his hand downward and his middle finger rubbed your clit through the fabric of your underwear, you had to bite your lip to keep from crying out. He began to rub you in a slow, languid clockwise motion, and you bucked your hips in response. He pressed down hard with his forearm, holding your hips against his pelvis as he continued to rub you at a pace that was going to drive you out of your goddamn mind.

He continued to draw circles around your nub, drawing out the tortuously gradual tightening of your walls. He must have been able to feel how wet you were through your underwear, a fact that should have crushed you with shame. But all you felt in that moment was the needful desire for him to _move faster._

He didn’t. He kept up his tortuous pace, so you reached back and grabbed his thigh, needing something to hold onto. Even through the thick fabric of his pants you could feel the taut, hard muscles underneath, and you gave a breathless moan that could have been a prayer or a curse.

Without warning, he removed his fingers from your mound and slid his hand down your underwear in a movement that was almost urgent. His middle finger dipped between your slick folds and rubbed against your clit, hard.

What left your mouth was definitely a curse as you bucked your hips and arched your neck. Fire licked up between your thighs, which were shaking as he rubbed fast, hard circles against your bud.

The way he held you now felt less like restraint and more like a devouring embrace. His tensed forearm kept your ass tight against his hardness and his metal hand tilted your head to the side, the hard ridges of his mask pressed against your neck. His breathing was ragged, strained, and you could feel the hot puffs of air escape through the vents onto your skin.

In a moment of illogical fantasy you wished you could tear it off, wanting to feel his lips on you. You didn’t even know what he looked like. It didn’t matter. You were coming undone, falling to pieces in his arms, and for the first time you felt something other than fear, humiliation, and anger.

He kept up the fast pace, two fingers on your bud now, slipping over your slick flesh as your walls started to tighten. It was alarming how fast he was drawing you to the edge, your skin tingling as an electric jolt sparked between your thighs.

You closed your eyes and tilted your head back, surrendering to the sensations and forgetting where you were. Nothing mattered aside from his fingers that were stroking life back into you after you had consigned yourself to a painful, lonely death.

Another electric jolt went through you, and your thighs trembled as you tried to remain steady on your feet. You were so close, but a small part of you resisted, refusing to surrender this last part of yourself.

A noise of frustration escaped your lips, one that sounded close to a sob. His fingers froze against your throbbing clit.

_“Please,”_ you begged, your raw voice sounding absolutely wrecked. _“So close…”_

You felt his cock twitch against your ass, and without hesitation he moved his fingers downward between your slick folds and pushed them into your entrance. You were tight, your walls clinging to his fore and middle fingers, but with how wet you were the sensation was delicious rather than painful. He curled his fingers, rubbing against the sensitive spot inside, and you gave a soft, _“oh.”_ His thumb rubbed against your clit as he worked his fingers in and out of you, and coaxing you to the edge with just a few rocking motions of his hand.

You didn’t last long. The electric heat traveled from your core to your clit, and your orgasm hit you like a shot. You bucked your hips, squeezed your thighs around his fingers, and released a cry louder than anything you had ever made before during sex.

His metal hand clamped over your mouth, muffling the noise. The sudden pressure on your mouth, coupled with the realization that you were being so loud, made you crest even higher. Everything went quiet and all you could see was white, and then you crashed back down, shuddering and writhing as your pussy thrummed against his stilled fingers.

All at once, he pulled his hand from inside your pants and removed his hand from your mouth. Your legs were trembling, your knees weak, and if he hadn’t kept his arms around you then you would have collapsed. Euphoria filled your limbs, but this was nothing like drugged state the doctors had forced on you. This was something else. A bubble of warmth and safety, his encircling arms adding to the feeling.

For a few seconds, frozen in time, you felt that everything would be all right.

And then it faded and reality came crashing down.

You moved away from him, jerky and unsteady, and found it was easy to break free of him now. He didn’t reach for you or try to restrain you again. He wasn’t even looking at you. The assassin held a distant look in his pale blue eyes, and strands of his brown hair stuck to his damp forehead.

Then without a word or a look your way, he strode across the cell and went through the door, his steps hasty and his head down. As if he couldn’t escape fast enough.

The door slammed shut behind him and you were alone.

You stared at the solid, bare door for a long moment, still catching your breath as your hands began to tremble. The nausea had returned, but for an entirely different reason now. You retreated to your mat with difficulty, as if you were walking through a quagmire. The post-orgasm haze was curdling into numb disbelief. And then it slowly transformed into something worse.

You managed to half-collapse, half-sit before the hot shame overwhelmed you. It stole the air from your lungs and you began to hyperventilate as you curled your knees to your chest and buried your head in your hands.

You stayed like that, trembling and curled in a protective shell, until the door opened hours later.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The reader reels from what she's done. But the assassin isn't done with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back baby! More build up for the next sexy chapter. Enjoy some soft/confused Winter Soldier in the meantime.
> 
> Chapter warning: intrusive thoughts

The isolation was bearing down on you again.

The harsh walls of your cell were growing smaller, the surface so stark it hurt your eyes to stare for too long. The quiet pressed against your eardrums like an invisible pressure, becoming so unbearable that you would scrape the bottom of your boots against the floor just to break the deafening silence.

You didn’t want to think about him. You didn’t want to acknowledge that his visit—and what he had done to you during it—had eased your torment and made the suffering more bearable. At least, for a short amount of time. Was this some new kind of torture? Give you a respite from the terror and isolation only to make it that much worse when you were left alone?

If that was the case, it was working. Your muscles were tensed into coils and you could feel your heartbeat pounding your chest, thumping like a caged rabbit. You wanted to get up and pace to burn the excess energy, but the part of you that still held onto Rumlow’s teachings told you to wait. Conserve energy, rest, and prepare. Always be prepared.

But the hypervigilance was wearing on you too. As you sat slumped against the wall, your mind began to wander, treading dangerous ground as it desperately searched for something to latch on to. If the assassin was acting under orders, at least you knew where you stood with him. He was your tormentor and you were the imprisoned. He would break you down eventually, using your need for comfort as a weapon against you.

But, what if… what if he was acting alone? If he had come to your cell of his own volition, acting on no authority but his own, that was even more dangerous. It made him unpredictable. Someone with a hidden agenda.

At the thought, you shivered and curled your legs up to your chest. It was still too cold in the cell. You would have taken a threadbare blanket at this point just to have something to warm yourself with, but they had stripped you of that small comfort too. Your humanity was a joke in this place; the punchline an unmarked, shallow grave.

The sound of the door unlocking jolted you out of your stupor. Your back was against the concrete and you were already in a half-crouch before the door was fully open. They wouldn’t take you without a fight today. You were determined to either escape this place or die in the attempt.

But there were no men in black fatigues, ready to haul you to the white room. It was the assassin. Again.

Your stomach churned in a storm of emotions, too many and all too fast for you to catch. The reason for his visit was clear as soon as he entered; he had brought you another tray of food, this one carefully balanced on his metal palm as he shut the door behind him.

You looked at the tray of food and sudden tears blurred your vision as you worked against the lump in your throat. _Pathetic,_ the cruel voice sneered in your mind. So what if he remembered to feed you when no one else would? He had still slaughtered your team. Taken you captive. You should hate him, but you didn’t. Instead, the voice mocked, you had let him use you. You had enjoyed it.

_And you’ll let him do it again,_ the cruel voice added, triumphant.

_No,_ you denied, wanting to shove your hands over your ears to shut out the accusation. _I won’t. Not this time. This time, I’ll fight._

While you warred with the invasive thoughts in your head, the assassin moved forward. The internal battle immediately ceased as you watched him walk halfway across the room, his movements oddly stilted as he placed the tray carefully on the floor, his eyes fixed downward. He wasn’t looking at you, and had avoided making eye contact as soon as he’d opened the door.

His demeanor was so different than the confident, graceful predator you had first confronted. Now, with the mask covering the lower half of his face and his hair obscuring what little was exposed, his stance tense and withdrawn, he looked like a downtrodden dog who had been beaten one too many times.

It could have been a trick. A manipulation tactic to gain your sympathy. You knew better. You were smarter than this.

So why did the sight of him looking so miserable pluck at something in your chest?

He turned to leave.

“Wait.”

He paused at the sound of your voice, his shoulders tense and his back rigid. You pulled yourself to your feet, not knowing what exactly you wanted to say to him but knowing you couldn’t let him leave without trying to get some answers.

“Please?”

He turned his head just enough to eye you out of his peripheral vision. You bent and carefully moved the foot tray out of your path, placing it on top of the sink. Showing him that you weren’t going to dash it against the wall in a rebellious act this time.

He slowly turned to face you, pale blue eyes watching, slightly narrowed in what you could only interpret as wariness. His flesh hand twitched and you tried not to stare at his bare fingers, your mind only too happy to recall what they had evoked from you hours ago.

“Why?” Your voice was slightly rough. “Why did you… _that?”_

You didn’t think a further explanation was warranted, but he didn’t respond. You were beginning to think he might be mute or that he had been expressly ordered not to speak to you.

_Ordered not to speak to me, but fucking me with his fingers was fine?_

You shut down that train of thought before it could go anywhere. Already your stomach was twisting in a way that felt too much like anticipation just from simply being in the same room as him.

_Jesus._

The first of your questions left unanswered, you decided to ask the second. It needed to be asked but it still set your teeth on edge. You almost hoped he wouldn’t answer this one, either.

“Did they tell you to do it? Were you under orders?”

For a moment, he remained completely still. And then the angle of his shoulders dipped the smallest degree.

“No.”

You were struck dumb. He had spoken. _Finally _spoken. His voice… was not what you expected. Muffled as it was by the mask, it was unmistakably masculine. But also strangely soft. You could feel the heat creeping up your chest, an involuntary response you wished you could deny.

“Okay,” you said, trying to sound as if that single word he had spoken hadn’t completely shaken you. “Then… _why?”_

He stared at you, his gaze unwavering for just long enough for the heat to spread to your neck. And then all at once, he looked away.

“I don’t know.”

Somehow, you were struck even more than before. There was something so human in that voice behind the mask, and it took you a moment to place it, despite the fact you had felt it not long ago.

_Shame._

Instead of feeling sympathy for him, something else sparked inside your gut.

“You don’t know?” you repeated his answer, the beginning of anger edging into your voice. “How can you not _know?_”

He glanced up at you, perhaps because of the hostility in your words, and his brows were angled together. He looked almost confused, as if he was truly mulling over your words, but you felt only frustration. You didn’t know how you knew, maybe your body had started keeping track of your schedule of misery, but you just _knew _the guards would be coming within the next couple of hours.

And you were running out of patience.

Before he could react, you strode up to him and grabbed him by the harness strapped across his leather vest. His eyes widened in surprise, and you pulled him closer, the scowl on your lips tight and unhappy.

“What are they _doing _to me?” you demanded. “Who are these people? What do they want?”

You were so close to him you could feel his filtered breath on your face. But he remained silent and still, a statue in your hands.

“Why did you bring me here!” you snapped, desperation cracking your voice. _“Answer me!”_

He didn’t react to your harsh tone or the distraught words. It was when your fists tightened around his harness, causing the leather to creak from the strain that he reacted. Swiftly and without hesitation.

He grabbed your shoulders and before you could blink, he slammed your back against the wall. The air whooshed out of you, but you didn’t dare move as he kept you firmly pinned in place, his fingers digging into your skin. Even through the curtain of his hair you could see the unforgiving severity of his pale eyes.

He kept you at arm’s length, almost deliberately so. He had never been shy about full-body contact before—clearly—but now he seemed to be keeping you as far away as possible.

You couldn’t stop staring at him as you tried to catch your breath, unable to look away as your body slightly trembled with the force of your coiled muscles. His gaze bore straight through you, intense with some emotion. Anger, perhaps. He was definitely upset, though you weren’t entirely sure why. _He_ wasn’t the one being tortured and kept locked in a prison.

His fingers tightened on your shoulders. This was it, you thought. Either he would snap your neck, release you, or drag you off to your dreaded appointment with the lab coats. You had gone too far, but even that knowledge was a relief. Anything was better than the unending, tedious waiting. Better to die now then return to the white room, or worse, lose your mind in this tiny cell.

But he didn’t move. He seemed frozen in place, his hard gaze wavering. Then it seemed to drift, appearing almost… lost. It was such a startling change from even a few seconds earlier that you couldn’t square it. Cold ruthlessness one moment, and then the next…

You didn’t know what made you do it—you couldn’t blame the fever this time. Maybe it was because you had nothing left to lose. You raised your hand and slowly, carefully, moved your hand toward your face.

His fingers gripped your shoulders tighter, his blue eyes honing in on your hand as if it was a weapon. You paused, not wanting him to grab your wrist again. But when he made no move to do so, you continued onward, drifting closer as your fingertips neared his jaw.

His hands on your shoulders were almost painful now, gripping you hard enough to make you wince. But he didn’t stop you.

You were so close now, _so close_, and then you were there. Fingertips touching the ridged surface of the dark mask. You weren’t sure how to unhook it from his face; it didn’t seem to be attached to his vest, though it was hard to tell with the black cloth covering his neck.

With great care, you traced along the hard material of the mask under his curtain of hair. It was soft against the back of your hand, tickling your knuckles as you moved towards the back of his jaw and below his ear.

You were having some kind of effect on him; his fingers trembled around the cusp of your shoulders and you heard the uneven rhythm of his breathing. But his eyes never left your face, the confused look replaced by something more focused but uneasy. He seemed as if he would snatch your hand away at any moment, the physical contact too much to bear.

You found a strap extending from the mask under his hair, a clasp along its length. You pried at it with your fingers, careful not to snag your nails on his loose brown strands, and with a _click _the strap came undone and the mask was loosened.

Barely breathing, you carefully slid it away from his face.

The face staring back at you was startling. Unexpected. Despite the hard line of his brow and the piercing glare of his pale eyes, the rest of his features were gentle. Handsome, even. His jaw looked powerful but his lips were full and soft. Stubble dusted his cheeks, enhancing his masculine features. Even his cheekbones changed the appearance of his eyes, giving the blue a sorrowful look where before they had been cold and callous.

He didn’t have the face of a killer. He had the face of someone whose first reaction was to smile. To show kindness. Where before you had only seen hard, knife-like edges, you now saw something soft and sadly sweet.

The mask felt vile in your hand and you quickly released it, hearing it clatter to the floor. The assassin paid no attention to it, his eyes only on you. How differently he looked without it.

Human. Vulnerable. _Jesus,_ he almost looked _breakable_. Was this really the same man who had massacred your team and dragged you into this nightmare?

You raised your hand to his face again, trying to steady your trembling fingertips. He had allowed this much; you figured there was no point in stopping now.

When your fingers made contact with his jaw, the muscles in his cheek jumped. You almost retreated at his flinch but instead cupped your hand against his cheek. He was unusually warm, undeniably alive, and the stubble on his sharp jaw tickled your palm.

But what was most startling of all was when his eyes became unfocused, half-lidded, and almost fluttered shut as he actually _leaned_ into your touch. It was such an innocent gesture, heartbreaking in its sincerity, and your first real insight that something was desperately off about this whole thing. About _him._

You should have asked more questions. Gotten him to talk now that he seemed pliant. But all you could do was hold his jaw in your hand, marveling at the way he couldn’t seem to get enough. As if he craved it. Needed it. When your thumb stroked lightly across his cheekbone, he gave a noticeable shiver.

His eyes flew open. He glared down at your hand and grabbed you before you could retract it, wrapping his metal fingers around your wrist and forcing it back against the wall next to your head.

The soft sadness in his eyes was gone. He braced his teeth so hard the muscles in his jaw flexed, and the hand that had been on your shoulder now grabbed the front of your black STRIKE tank.

And just like that, as if flipped by a switch, his demeanor had changed and your fear had returned. His mood was mercurial at best, unstable at worse, and you let emotions distract you, trick you into thinking he might be something he wasn’t. The assassin was violent and aggressive, not someone to be pitied or empathize with.

You had fucked up royally, and now he had you in his sights.

Your worst fears seemed to be confirmed as he brought his face close to yours, his breathing shaky and erratic. You turned away, pressing your cheek against the rough, concrete wall. At this angle you could see his metal arm just inches away, holding the narrowest point of your right wrist.

You had never thought of yourself as small, and certainly not frail, but you were as delicate as a trapped bird in his steel grasp.

Shutting your eyes tight, you waited for the attack to come. Almost wished for it, because pain you knew how to deal with. If he was brutal and cruel to you, then everything would be simple. Black and white. That was the world you lived in. None of these shades of grey that left you ashamed and confused and—

You went stock-still as something warm pressed against the sensitive area below your earlobe. Opening your eyes but not wanting to turn and look, worried you might set him off again, you tried to figure out what it was. Your stomach fluttered with what felt like a hurricane of electric butterflies when you realized what it was: his lips.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The assassin wages war. The reader keeps losing her battles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the last smut-heavy chapter for a while as we return to the plot. I hope you've enjoyed the story so far; please feel free to leave a comment if that's your jam. Otherwise come say hi to me on tumblr at Wolveria or my Marvel blog at TrashMenofMarvel. Love y'all.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Mild dubcon, compartmentalization, smut, lots of smut

You hadn’t felt someone’s mouth on your neck in a long time, but the sensation was unmistakable even if it was extremely soft. Feather-light and punctuated by tickling puffs of air as he exhaled. Pressing down more firmly, his lips mouthed at your skin.

You couldn’t stop the shiver that reverberated up your spine and you couldn’t hide the goosebumps that covered your arms. His grip had slackened on your wrist and shoulder, but he only moved closer as evident by the body heat you now felt inches away.

When his teeth lightly catch the bottom of your earlobe, your knees nearly buckled as your legs jellified. Shame heated your cheeks, not just for what he was doing, or how you couldn’t deny how good it felt, but by how _easily_ he undid you. Made you malleable and docile and downright goddamn _submissive._

It wasn’t you. This wasn’t you. You had to stop this, had to get out before you let this insanity go any further. You had sworn you would fight this time. You promised it wouldn’t happen again. _You promised._

Just as you were about to shove him away and make a break for the door, you felt his tongue against your skin, licking your earlobe to draw it further between his teeth.

It was so fucking_ indecent_ and you made the most pathetic, needy noise in response. You were already wet if the tension between your thighs was any indication, and it was only made worse as he released your earlobe and trailed downward. His lips and tongue tasting your skin was enough to send warmth pooling into your belly, but when his teeth grazed down the side of your neck you ached so hard so fast that it was almost painful.

When he mouthed your collarbone, you nearly lost it. You moved against him, your body unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. With your free left hand, your fingers scrambled against his vest, desperate for something to hold on to. But he grabbed that wrist too and pushed it back against the wall, leaving you helpless and pinned.

He may have wanted all the control to keep you trapped and unable to resist him, but even in your need you hated feeling powerless. His metal fingers never loosened or grew slack, but eventually his flesh hand did. As he mouthed the column of your throat, forcing you to give a breathless whimper, you finally wrenched your left hand free and buried it within the soft mass of his hair.

He went completely rigid, his mouth freezing against your skin. You had planned to grab his hair to yank him back and pull him off you. Instead, you moved your fingers downward to brace the back of his neck and pull him closer, forcing his face harder into your throat.

His mouth next to your ear was the only reason you were able to catch the quiet noise he made. It was soft, almost a whimper, but the undeniable pleasure in it sent a jolt directly to your core.

With renewed enthusiasm he latched onto your neck, trailing fire down your throat with lips that compelled you to tilt your head back. He made a noise of approval low in his throat, sending electricity through your pelvis. After he had thoroughly tasted every inch of your throat, he traveled downward, mouthing at your collar bone before continuing, kissing down your sternum until he reached your stomach.

He had released your wrist and shoulder by now, his large hands now holding onto your hips and thighs. One of your hands was curled into his hair while the other grasped his shoulder for something to hold onto.

When he lifted up the hem of your shirt and mouthed at the sensitive skin of your stomach, you gripped his hair tighter and gave a sharp gasp. He continued to kiss and tease with his teeth and it took everything you had not to squirm. You had never been so responsive to someone’s touch before, but you didn’t think about that now—you just needed more.

He unhooked the top button and pulled down the zipper, lowering your pants just enough to tongue the area just below your bellybutton.

_“Oh, God,”_ you said in a breathless whimper. His only response was to hook his fingers around the waistband of your pants and pull them down to your ankles. He lifted his mouth away just like enough to remove your boots and then your pants, leaving you only in your tank and underwear. You should have been freezing, but instead you felt your skin was burning up.

He gripped your outer thighs with his hands, one warm and the other cool. It felt strange but good,_ really_ good, and when you looked down to see the metal fingers running along the curve of your bare leg, you had an entirely new reaction to his lethal arm.

When your gaze traveled to his face, you couldn’t look away. His pupils were blown and his lips were kiss-swollen, and his cheeks were flushed in a way that made you goddamn_ soaked_. He looked debauched as he stared up at you, on his knees, his lips pressed against your thigh as he mouthed upward.

You had already been aching for his touch, but the anticipation of him edging closer toward your place where you_ really_ wanted his mouth was driving you insane. To say your body was reacting was an understatement. You were struggling to control the pace of your breathing, your heart racing like a horse and your fingers trembling as you tried to touch whatever part of him you could reach. His shoulders, his arms, his neck. He especially seemed to like it when you curled your fingers into his hair. His responses were reserved and muted, a shiver or a breathless sigh, but they were there.

And you were becoming enthralled with them as he was on his knees, worshipful.

When he pressed his nose against your clothed mound, your legs nearly gave out. He held you up with his hands and you could feel the strength in them. Your fingers tightened in his hair, eliciting a shudder from him. But he didn’t stop nosing and mouthing at you, practically burying his face between your legs. You thought you might just die on the spot.

_“Fuck,”_ you choked out, entirely unable to keep the needy whine out of your voice. _“Please…”_ You couldn’t keep the desperation out of it, either.

When he moved his mouth away, you looked down, disappointed frustration filling your chest. But then you watched, stunned, as he leaned up and took the hem of your panties in his teeth and pulled them slowly down your legs.

The sight of that alone was almost enough to undo you.

He pulled your underwear down and over your calves and ankles, and you stepped out of them, exposed and shivering even though you were running as hot as a space heater.

He didn’t leave you alone for long; he stared at your mound, curiously almost, and you felt blush of shyness you hadn’t experienced since your youth.

And then all shyness was forgotten as he moved forward and licked a stripe up your folds, taking his sweet time, savoring you.

“Shit!” You slightly jumped as an electric jolt went up your body, all the way up to your tightening nipples as the warmth flooded your lower belly. You wouldn’t have been surprised if your thighs were goddamn dripping with your own need at this point.

He ignored your curses and licked again, digging his tongue deeper this time, slipping between the folds and running over your sensitive clit. You shuddered hard, once again grabbing onto him to hold onto something. He didn’t seem to mind your fingers digging into his shoulders, and you could feel the unyielding metal under the left cusp of his vest.

As much as you wanted to watch him taste and lick you as if you were a delectable fruit he was going to devour, you couldn’t hold resist your own pleasure any longer. You closed your eyes and arched your back against the wall, slightly spreading your knees to give him better access as you pulled him tighter against you.

He responded eagerly, burying his face into your crotch as he licked loud and lewdly, sucking on your clit to punctuate. You twitched and shuddered against him, and he gripped your thighs tightly to hold you still.

The pressure coiled in your abdomen was building at a delicious pace, but you still wanted more. You wanted him _inside_ you. And that need was making you unable to remain cooperative under his grip.

Without warning, he grabbed your right leg and hooked it over his left shoulder. You barely had time to register what he had done because he had immediately darted his tongue into your entrance, plying you open as he plunged within and gave you exactly what you needed.

The noise you made was shameless enough that you were almost shocked by it, but his tongue quickly drove any thoughts from your mind. You looked down, heat flooding you at the sight of his metal arm curled around your thigh, holding you firmly in place while the hard plates left indents in your skin.

There was no possible way you would ever look at that arm the same way again. But seeing him between your legs, eating you out as if he was starving, was the thing that pushed you over the edge.

You arched your back and gasped for air as your orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. There was no hand to cover your mouth this time, and you had to clench your jaw hard to muffle the cry that ripped from your throat. You banged the back of your head against the concrete and barely noticed, too consumed by the ripples of ecstasy that expanded across your skin and danced along your nerves.

He sustained your orgasm by continuing to tongue you, slowly and gently across your throbbing clit, making your thighs twitch with each contact. Overwhelmed from the attention to your now oversensitive skin, you tried to think of a way to get him to stop.

As if your body knew the answer before your brain did, your hand loosened from the grip on his hair and moved through the soft strands with something like gentleness.

He paused, and then moved away from your folds, leaning his cheek against the inside of your thigh. You were beginning to understand what it was that made him respond so readily to something so small and simple. He was as touch- and affection-starved as you were. You weren’t sure how to feel about that.

When your climax finally passed, you expected him to release you. To leave without a word. So when he reinforced his grip and suddenly buried his face back between your legs, running his tongue along your folds and lapping up your juices, you accidently banged your head against the wall again.

“Oh, God!” you said in a sharp moan. “Shit, shit, _shit—“_

Your curses were silenced when he slipped two fingers between your folds and into your entrance, giving you no time to prepare for the sudden fullness of him inside you as he continued to lick and tease at your sensitive nub.

You were beyond speaking now. All you could do was hold on as he pulled you apart, ruined you in the best way possible. Your left hand alternated between petting and gripping his hair, and your right dug into the hard metal of his arm. You didn’t know if he could feel it, but your nails scratched along its surface as the silver arm remained curled around your leg.

His mouth switched between licking and sucking your clit as his fingers kept a steady rhyme, fucking you hard and deliberate. The heel of your foot dug into his back, senselessly trying to pull him in even though he couldn’t possibly get any closer than he was.

But you did want him, _needed_ more of him. His fingers and mouth were unraveling you at the core, but it was the unbidden thought of him spinning you around, shoving you against the wall, and slipping his length between your folds and stretching you around his cock that made you come so hard your ears rang.

You didn’t realize your legs had given out until you came back to yourself and found you were practically half-sitting on his shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind; the licks he swiped across you after removing his fingers were slow and sweet, and you shuddered at each one.

When he uncurled your leg from around his shoulder, you managed to remain on your feet. Barely. The afterglow of your climax left you feeling drugged and sluggish. You couldn’t experience happiness, not in this place, but the temporary relief from your constant agony was almost just as good.

After the assassin rose to his feet he lingered a few inches away, filling your vision with his intimidating bulk. His soft brown hair hung in his face, his pale eyes watching you from behind them, almost shyly, but his lips were swollen and pink and unmistakably damp from your juices.

You wanted to kiss those lips so badly it almost hurt. You had always been a cuddler after sex; even now you felt the need for affection and closeness. You wondered if he wanted the same thing, or if it was a delusion to think this was anything more than a strange exercise in power.

But… he wasn’t leaving, either.

You got an idea. A very bad one you knew you shouldn’t follow through. You could have blamed it on the postcoital bliss. Maybe you had already lost your goddamn mind and just didn’t know it yet. Whatever the cause, you leaned forward and caught his bottom lip between your teeth, tracing your tongue across it and tasting yourself there.

His breath hitched, a sharp inhalation through his nose. You expected him to shove you back or pin you to the wall, the limits of his patience reached. But he didn’t. He remained perfectly still as you mouthed at his lips, shivering at how soft they were.

After a few seconds, you paused. He wasn’t responding.

You frowned, confused. He had had no qualms about using his mouth to eat you out like a goddamn buffet, but now it was as if he didn’t know how to use it. His lips were slightly parted, hovering just over yours. He was barely breathing, and you wondered if you stop before he made himself pass out.

Instead of retreating, you curled your hand across the back of his neck, lightly scratching your nails into the base of his hairline. From how he had reacted before you thought he might have enjoyed it, and you instantly knew you were right. He sighed against your lips, a low noise at the back of his throat, and he leaned forward and molded his mouth against yours.

You practically melted. The act felt more intimate than anything he had done to you so far, and your skin tingled as a flush creeped up your chest. 

The kiss itself was surprisingly gentle, almost chaste. He wasn’t touching you anywhere else, not even with his hands, and the lack of contact was confusing and strange.

Then he made a small noise and pressed down harder against your lips. Responding without thinking, you opened your mouth to him, tentatively tasting his lips with your tongue. To your surprise he parted them, and you slipped your tongue between his teeth, licking into his mouth.

The thrill of it made your thighs clench together, and before you could stop yourself you moaned into his mouth.

His response was swift; his fingers gripped your waist and he pinned you between the wall and his torso, making his rigid erection against your hip very pronounced.

In that moment of postcoital haze, blissful and warm and liquid, all you wanted was for him to feel the same. For your fingers and lips and body to draw from him the same ecstasy he had given to you a moment ago.

At that point, your brain stopped working and your body took control. You rolled your hips forward in response, rubbing against the straining through his pants. He froze, but you didn’t notice until it was too late.

When you lowered your other hand to unclasp the holster slung around his hips, he broke the kiss so fast you were left stunned. He grabbed your wrists roughly and yanked them away from his body, hard enough to hurt.

You were frozen, completely immobilized by the cold fury in his eyes. Piercing and sharp as ice, boring into your face as if you were nothing more his hated enemy.

He kept his eyes on you as he carefully reached down and picked up his mask from the floor. You’d forgotten it was even there.

Animal terror curled in your belly. You were all too aware how exposed you were, backed against the wall in nothing more than a tank top. But he didn’t touch you again. Instead, he straightened to his full height, towering over you with hard eyes and lips pressed firmly together.

You blinked rapidly, trying to clear the stinging moisture from your vision. You barely breathed, shaken by the rapid change in him, vulnerable in a way you’d never been in your entire life.

Perhaps he noticed the fearful change in you, because he watched you for a long silent moment before his gaze wavered and drifted to a point above your shoulder.

And then he turned and stormed from your cell, slamming the door hard enough for it to shake in its hinges.

Your legs buckled and you slid to the floor. Your calf and thigh muscles trembled weakly, but you forced yourself onto your knees as you quickly scooped up your clothing, pulling on your underwear and pants and finally your boots, not wanting to be unclothed for a second longer.

Once dressed, the trembling subsided enough for you to brace the wall and pull yourself to your feet. That’s when you noticed the food tray, forgotten on top of the sink. You considered ignoring it, but even now you couldn’t shake the training that seemed to be engrained into your bones. You took it with you back to your bed mat. There was no point in wasting calories, not when you knew you would desperately need the energy later.

As you began to eat, you methodically compartmentalized everything that had happened. You had _no _fucking clue what you were doing. The whole situation was insane, but then again, you were in an insane situation. Kept for days, tortured for no reason you could decipher, your team murdered by the very man you had sought comfort from _twice_ now.

None of it mattered right now and it could be processed later. You focused on each bite, chewing the bland, cold food without tasting it.

Black and white. That was what you needed. The stability you had always craved. You didn’t do grey. Because in the grey, there were too many unknowns. Too many things that could be allowed, like the fact you were beginning to feel something for your captor. And where he, apparently, felt something too.

_Pack it up._

He was a brutal murderer. An inhuman killer. A real-life monster. But for a little while, he had made you forget. He had made you feel something other than pain and misery.

_Close the lid tight._

As unpredictable and dangerous as he was, the violent impulses that drove him to do the things he did seemed to stop short of hurting you. And you had no idea why that was or what to do about it.

You paused. Deliberated. Maybe… maybe there was a way to reach through to him—

_No_. The voice was harsh. Blunt. It sounded like Rumlow._ This one goes too. Put it away. Focus on the mission. Survival at all costs._

You couldn’t rely on any mercy from the assassin. You were on your own. And with that last portcullis shut tight, the image of the man’s sorrowful blue eyes was buried out of sight.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader takes her shot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, thank you everyone for all your comments. I read and adore every single one of them. Let me know what you think about this chapter. Some of your theories may have been confirmed :)
> 
> No smut here, just some plot, action, angst, and feels.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Violence, torture and psychological terror

The door didn’t open until hours later, startling you from a light doze. You almost rolled over, expecting to find the assassin had returned, but no. There were too many footsteps. Voices in German telling you to get up and turn around.

_German?_

You didn’t respond, though you understood what they were saying well enough. You remained perfectly still, your muscles relaxed and liquid. You could hear them step closer, this time calling out to you in heavily-accented English.

“Stand up. Face the wall.”

You continued to ignore them. Another voice, German again, stated you might be sick. Maybe even be dead.

When one of them touched your arm, you remained limp and unmoving, breathing shallow and slow. Playing possum worked, and one of them lifted you up and dragged you onto your feet, slapping you hard across the face.

You mumbled something intelligible and the man drew nearer, his hot breath on your face. He moved so close that when you slammed your forehead against his, he could do nothing to stop it from happening.

As the first man fell, the next descended on you with a shout on his lips. But you had been saving your energy, gathering your strength from food and sleep and the brief reprieve from the torture machine. With the assassin having treated your arm, you were in better condition than when you had arrived.

Your captors weren’t prepared for it.

You grabbed the second guard by the back of his neck and smashed his face into the edge of the sink so hard he dented it with blood and bits of bone.

The third threw a punch at your head and you ducked under it, sending your curled first into his gut and flipping him over your arm, slamming him into the concrete wall.

By the time you faced the fourth, you were armed with a baton you had stolen from the third. He was built for pure brutal power, his shoulders the size of a small truck, but he was slow. And you were built for speed. Faster than he could block, you took out his kneecaps, his elbows, and finally knocked him unconscious with a hard _crack_ to the top of his head.

You stood there for a moment, catching your breath as you surveyed the scene of controlled violence. You couldn’t linger to gloat, even though you knew your S.O. would have been damn proud of your flawless execution at taking out four armed opponents.

You moved forward, stepping over the unconscious bodies, and peeked your head very carefully out of the cell door. They had left it open and unlocked. Idiots.

Moving at a fast jog, you left your miserable cell and turned down the first hallway you saw, pausing briefly before rounding the corner to check it was clear. It was, and you proceeded onward, searching along the corridors for an exit to the outside world. If this was an abandoned prison, as you suspected, that wouldn’t be an easy task.

Still, you felt better now, out of your cage and armed with a weapon. The guards hadn’t been carrying anything more lethal than batons, but you could kill with it just as surely as you could with your bare hands. And you would do whatever it took to regain your freedom.

At least… until you saw the figure standing at the end of the hallway, blocking your path. You skidded to a stop, heart hammering in your ears as you tried to deny what you were seeing.

The assassin remained steadfast and unyielding, his unreadable gaze meeting yours through his unkempt strands of hair. He looked different from the last time you saw him. His outfit, once immaculate and clean, was now dusted and marked. His silver arm no longer glinted like polished steel; it was dull and battle-worn, the red star scuffed and faded.

Your eyes went from his arm to his face, noting the soot and dried blood along his jaw. Someone had gotten close enough to wound him.

Conflicting emotions warred within you: concern, anger, desperation. You didn’t want to go through him. You didn’t even really want to hurt him.

_Do it, kid,_ Rumlow’s voice echoed from within. _Survival at all costs._

You extended the baton in your hand, steeling yourself as you glared into his blue eyes.

His own gaze never wavered, though you did see his shoulders slightly rise and fall, as if taking a deep breath.

You took a step forward. And didn’t get any farther than that.

Pain exploded across the back of your head and stars burst in your vision as you fell to your knees. A swift kick to your ribs made you cry out, sending you hard onto your side. You had been too distracted by the assassin to realize the guards had moved in behind you. Not the ones you had overwhelmed in your cell—these were fresh reinforcements, all too eager to show you how they felt about what you had done to their comrades.

The kicks and punches fell on you like an avalanche of boulders. You curled into a tight fetal position, trying to protect your head and vulnerable abdomen with your bare arms. You knew you could easily be killed like this, each brutal blow bringing you closer to a violent end. The trauma-induced depression, the fatalistic lethargy, all of it vanished as every fiber of your being screamed to be allowed to live. To survive just a second longer.

Just when you were sure you had reached the limit of what you could endure, there was a cry, loud and sharp. Then another, followed by the sound of something hard striking flesh. More shouts followed, surprised and angry, but more importantly, the assault on your bruised and battered body stopped.

You slowly uncurled your hands from your hair and looked upward to see the assassin holding one of the men against the wall, metal fingers tight around his neck.

The guard’s eyes were wide with terror and he clawed at the hand choking him. Small, half-formed gurgling noises left his throat as his face turned beet-red.

The assassin held him for a moment longer and then tossed him aside as easily as a ragdoll.

Impossible hope bloomed in your chest. But the assassin didn’t look at you. He remained an immovable stature, his chest rising and falling with each hard breath. That’s when you noticed the lab coat stepping up next to him, the face behind his surgical mask and glasses angry.

_“Idiots!”_ he yelled in Russian. Your Russian was more fluent than your German, so you listened through your wheezing breaths. “Do you wish to destroy all our work?” he continued to shout down at the groaning men. At least, those who were conscious enough to hear him. “Hmm? Perhaps I will inform_ him_ and see how pleased he is to hear you damaged his new asset!”

The doctor scowled, and without looking at either you or the assassin he turned around and said, “Pick her up. Take her to the chair.”

The assassin responded at once; he turned toward you, strode over, and reached down to pick you up.

You immediately thrashed at the feel of his hands on you, ignoring the fresh pain of your abused muscles as you fought to free yourself. He ignored your resistance and tightened his arms around you, picking you up with ease, as if you weighed nothing at all.

He took you to the white room, carrying you bridal-style over the threshold like some fucked-up mockery of matrimonial tradition. And then he deposited you into the chair, pulling the metal restrains over your arms and legs before turning and walking out of the room.

He never looked at you.

Maybe that was why you didn’t struggle when they forced the rubber between your teeth. The fight had fled you, your will to resist evaporating as your body throbbed in a painful beat.

You had believed, just for a moment, he was going to help you. Save you. _What a stupid thought._ A childish hope. You were a toy to him, a plaything. He didn’t care about you. That was clear now.

Tears filled your eyes and blurred your vision, soon forgotten as the crackling sizzled across your skull. The electric agony whited out all of your thoughts. It was almost a relief.

When the pain ended, you floated in a haze. Ungrounded, untethered. Your eyes drifted across at your surroundings. It was difficult to gather your vision and your thoughts. You couldn’t remember how you had gotten there, or really where you were to begin with. Something about the stark room was familiar, enough to make tendrils of dread curl in your stomach.

A shadowy figure loomed over you and lifted you from the chair. You tried to focus on the shadow’s face but it eluded you, all smoke and silver and darkness. You closed your eyes and tipped your head back, your neck resting against a cool, metal surface.

You heard sounds, distant and intangible, and it took you a moment to recognize them. Heavy footsteps. The slide of doors across metal runners. Faint breathing. And you could feel a slight swaying motion, something warm holding you aloft.

You dragged your eyes open and forced them to focus. There was a silver curve inches from your nose. You trailed the metal surface upwards, catching on a scuffed crimson star. Further along, over a dark vest, and finally to the face of the man carrying you.

The slope of his powerful jaw. The pout of his full lips. His soft hair a curtain around his pale blue eyes.

You knew that face. In an instant, you _knew_ it. And it all came rushing back.

A guard opened the cell door and the assassin carried you through, his pale eyes looking forward and almost blank. You trembled in his arms but he ignored you, moving forward as the door shut and locked behind him.

He crouched down and set you on your mat. He was almost gentle.

You hated it.

_“Bastard.”_

His eyes flicked down to yours, honing in sharply. There was no gentleness there, only blue steel.

_“How could you?”_ you whispered, unable to speak any louder as the words cracked painfully in your throat. _“How could you do this—“_

You arched your back suddenly, gasping as agony ripped down your spine from the base of your skull. It felt like you were being electrocuted all over again. Your muscles cramped against your will, leaving you stricken and unable to draw breath.

You didn’t understand what was happening. You were terrified.

The spasms ended after what felt like an eternity and you collapsed back down, shivering hard as you gasped for air. It hurt so _fucking much._ Tears welled in your eyes, as much as from fear as in agitation from the sharp stinging in your muscles. The pain was fading almost as quickly as it had begun, but it left you exhausted and trembling.

Multiple aftershocks hit you after that. Not as intense as the original spasms, though they traveled throughout your muscles, making you shiver, your teeth chattering.

Eventually, those passed too. You realized the sides of your face were wet from the tears you weren’t aware you’d shed.

You opened your eyes and flinched. The assassin was sitting right next to you. He stared down at you, his expression muted, but… not hard and cold. Both of his legs were crossed before him and he rested his elbows on his knees.

Just… watching.

You wondered why he had stayed. Decided you didn’t care, and glared up at him with what little energy you had left.

_“Go… away,”_ you rasped, in the process nearly choking on the dryness of your own throat. _“Leave me… alone.”_

Without a word, the assassin rose to his feet and departed. You were surprised he had actually listened.

You closed your eyes, the glare of the single lightbulb hurting your eyes and making your head pound. You wanted to turn onto your side away from the light but you were too weak for even that. You weren’t sure if it was from the beating you were just now beginning to remember or if it was from the torture. So you remained on your back, listless and unmoving as you hovered on the edge of unconsciousness, your muscles infrequently trembling.

You knew enough about anatomy to guess that whatever they were doing to you was seriously fucking with your nervous system. From your temporary confusion, disorientation, memory loss, and finally the muscle spasms. And now, the aftereffects seemed to be getting worse. The spasms were new. So was the brief memory loss. But there was something you did remember besides the sheer agony of shocks running through your scalp.

_Compliance will be rewarded._

You shivered. There was something compelling about those words. They pulled at something within you, made you want to stop resisting, stop fighting. It would be easier if you just… gave in. Surrendered. Following orders is what you did, after all. And you were the best at it. You were trained to follow, not to deviate, and perhaps if you simply _complied—_

You flinched as the cell door opened, yanking you out of your thoughts like you were being pulled out of a pool of thick tar. You didn’t have the strength to open your eyes, so you listened.

Footsteps. Only one pair. The slightly uneven gait was becoming familiar to you now.

You could hear the creak of leather nearby, but you weren’t prepared for the touch on the back of your neck. You gave a startled noise and forced your eyes open.

The assassin was looking down at you, gaze as piercing and unreadable as usual. He held something in his metal hand. A cup of water. He must have filled it elsewhere, since you hadn’t heard the sink turn on. Plus you were pretty sure the sink was unusable, bits of bone and blood still covering its surface, left as a reminder of your botched escape attempt.

His right hand cradled the back of your head more firmly, and you couldn’t even summon up a resentful glare as he brought the cup to your mouth. The cool liquid against your lips was too tempting, and you parted them to drink, greedily at first until he tipped the cup back down. You were impatient, desperate as you realized how parched you were, but he only allowed small sips at a time.

When you finally finished the entire cup, your head felt clearer and your throat was no longer sandpaper. He carefully tilted your head back to the mat. You turned your head, nosing against his palm.

He went completely still. You didn’t hear him even breathe.

As was so often the case lately, you didn’t know what you were doing. All you knew was that you were in pain, alone, and the more terrified than ever, which was saying something. There was no room for shame in the space you occupied. You craved human contact, needed it just as desperately as the water.

He was a bastard. A heartless, cold, murderous bastard. But he was all that you had.

You nuzzled against his hand and closed your eyes as a wave of exhaustion settled over you like a heavy blanket. Your head rested on his hand like a pillow, the full weight of it on his palm.

He didn’t move it at first, his fingers rigid and stiff. But after a moment they slowly relaxed, softly curling into your hair.

You exhaled. And surrendered to the black pull of desperate sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader discovers some revealing truths, and a monumental shift takes place in the assassin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hang on to your asses it's about to get Buck Wild in here. He's going off folks.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Violence, including a major attack to the feels

Voices, distant, but drawing nearer, roused you from your dreamless sleep. You had a sense you hadn’t been asleep for very long, a half hour maybe, judging by the state of your exhaustion, but you were still surprised to see the assassin hadn’t moved. And neither had his hand.

It remained nestled under the back of your head, warm and solid. You opened your eyes slowly, the world coming into focus a little bit at a time; when it did your eyes snapped immediately to his face. He was watching you even now, expression immutable but comforting in a way. He was becoming a familiar fixture, something for your mind to hold onto.

People crave consistency, Rumlow had told you when describing the psychological effects of imprisonment. It gave them a sense of control and security.

How ironic the assassin had become that to you.

The voices drew nearer. He gave no indication that he heard them. He just stared down at you. The silent warden. The benevolent captor. The lethal conqueror.

_Who are you?_ you wondered as you traced his face with your eyes. Maybe it was the exhaustion, so intense that it was bordering on feverish. But when your vision alighted on his dark hair, his pink lips, and his icy eyes, you thought he looked… well. There was no other word for it.

He was beautiful.

The voices were at the door. In a quick movement, he grasped your hip in his metal fingers, and before you could protest rolled you onto your side so you were facing the wall. His flesh hand was still on the back of your head, cradling you with his fingers, and he leaned down and said in a low rumble into your ear:

“Don’t speak. Remain still.”

You didn’t understand what was going on, but as soon as the door banged open your muscles went rigid and you couldn’t have moved if you’d wanted to.

_“Soldier.”_

No German or Russian language this time; whoever this voice belonged to spoke in clear, concise English. His timbre was firm, deep, and demanded obedience with its implicit authority. You almost reacted, your body ingrained to respond to such a tone. You knew the voice of a commander when you heard one.

The assassin’s hands were off you in an instant, and you heard the creak of his uniform and the light scuff of his boots as he moved to his feet.

“What is he doing in here?” the newcomer asked evenly. You had noticed that many of those in this place, lab coats and soldiers alike, gave wary, even fearful glances to the assassin.

There wasn’t an ounce of fear or wariness in this man’s voice. And that more than anything made you remain perfectly still even as your heart raced in your ears.

The assassin didn’t answer. Instead, you recognized the voice of the bowtie-wearing doctor.

“Sir, he’s unstable. Erratic.”

“So you’ve said,” the man answered smoothly. “Any idea as to why?”

A hesitant breath. A slight shuffle.

“We’re not sure.”

“Make an educated guess.”

“Ever since he returned from his confrontation with Rogers—“

You inhaled at the name. It was one you knew well, considering you’d been on quite a few missions with the Captain himself.

“All right,” the man interrupted before the doctor could continue. “That’s enough.”

Now that you’d heard more of his speech, something vaguely familiar about the man’s voice registered in the forefront of your mind. You were becoming more and more certain you had heard it somewhere before.

“Mission report.”

You assumed this last command was meant for the assassin. But like before, he remained silent. There was a sense of foreboding as the tension in the room increased, further punctuated when the man repeated, “Mission report _now_.”

The silence stretched to an unbearable degree until it was broken by the sudden _crack_ of flesh striking flesh.

You almost flinched but somehow managed to quell the motion. Your fear was supplanted by a growing ember of anger. You knew you shouldn’t care what happened to the assassin. Care who hurt or abused him. And yet, your fingernails still bit into the palm of your hand.

“The man on the bridge,” the assassin finally responded, his voice soft and unsure. Incongruous to the other man’s resolute tone. “Who was he?”

A pause.

“You met him earlier this week on another assignment.”

Another stretch of silence. When the assassin spoke again, his voice was so quiet you almost didn’t catch his words.

“I knew him.”

The way he said them tugged something within you. It also raised too many questions.

The man sighed. But when he spoke, he sounded perfectly in control.

“Your work has been a gift to mankind. You shaped the century.”

His praise felt manufactured, contrived. As if he was speaking them to an audience instead of a single man.

“And I need you to do it one more time. Society’s at a tipping point between order and chaos. And tomorrow morning, we’re gonna give it a push. But...” He paused, and you could practically hear the edge of impatience to his voice as he said, “If you don’t do your part, I can’t do mine. And HYDRA can’t give the world the freedom it deserves.”

Your breath caught in your throat. No. Surely you had heard incorrectly. HYDRA was a piece of history, a fragment of S.H.I.E.L.D.’s past. Long-gone and covered in dust in the annals of history.

But then you remembered something one of the doctors had said in your delirious state of pain and fever.

_Hail HYDRA._

A chill ran down your spine.

No further mentions of HYDRA were made, but the man did continue talking. “And you can’t do your part for humanity if you’re here, in this cell. Which I have yet to hear an explanation for.”

When no answer was forthcoming from the assassin, the doctor spoke up, his voice hesitant.

“He seems to have formed a certain… affinity for the new asset.”

That was the second time now someone had addressed you by that phrase. You assumed it couldn’t mean anything nice and cheery.

“An affinity?” the man repeated in a flat tone.

“He fed her. Treated her wound,” the doctor answered in a slightly trembling voice. “And after each mission this week, he visited her cell. Ever since her arrival, his behavior has been increasingly uncooperative—“

“And you _let him?”_

You could hear the repentant gulp as the doctor swallowed.

“I didn’t… we didn’t see the harm…“

“Didn’t see the—“ The man cut off abruptly, seemingly speechless. His voice wasn’t smooth and calm anymore. “Were you born this incompetent or did you have to work at it? No, don’t answer that.”

There was a heavy sigh, followed by a heavy pause. When he next spoke, he sounded resigned.

“Prep him.”

“He’s been out of cryo freeze too long.”

“Then wipe him,” the man said curtly. “And start over.”

One pair of footsteps departed your cell, and the rest followed. You didn’t dare move, or even breathe, until the cell door slammed shut and you heard the lock click into place.

You listened as the footsteps receded out of hearing, and you chanced a glance over your shoulder to be sure you were truly alone. Then you sat up and pushed the hair off your damp forehead, trying to steady your racing heart.

_Wipe him?_ What did that mean? What did_ any_ of it mean?

Your eyes drifted to the plastic cup on the floor, innocuous. A physical reminder of the man who had brought it and left it behind. You picked it up, turning it over in your hand as your fingers ran over the rigid lines of the semi-clear plastic.

The assassin had done all of those things on his own and you didn’t know what to make of it. You didn’t like the way they had talked about him either, as if he weren’t even in the room. As if he was just some broken toy they had to fix. It wasn’t normal. It wasn’t right.

_What did they do to you?_ You stared down at the cup cradled in your hands. _And what will they do to you now?_

* * *

When they ordered him from the cell, he obeyed.

When they told him to get in the chair, he complied.

But once he sat within it, he began to feel the itch again.

It started in the back of his mind, stretching outward through his thoughts. It made him unsettled. Uneasy. As if something wasn’t right. But it was always out of his reach, the thing that prodded his attention and made his fingers flex in agitation.

Even now he couldn’t remain perfectly still, the fingers of his right hand moving restlessly over the fabric of the armrest. He paused when he felt the indents. He looked down to see tears, crescent moon shapes ripped into the material.

They had been made by _her _fingernails.

It was curious. When the man who gave him his orders said what they would do to her, what she would eventually become for him, he hadn’t cared. It had been meaningless noise. She had been just another mission objective. If HYDRA made plans for her that involved him, so be it. It was no concern of his.

The attack had gone smoothly. Execute Kartal. Wipe out the present members of STRIKE. She had been worthy prey, it turned out. He could have killed her, easily, at any time if those had been the orders. But she still would have lasted longer than the rest of them. She managed to get the woman and boy away. Unexpected, but they didn’t matter. The priority was her capture with minimal damage.

When met with him face-to-face, most couldn’t stand their ground. They ran, they screamed. The brave ones fought. But she had remained perfectly still. A small, frozen, helpless creature. He had been able to walk right up to her and she had kept her eyes tightly shut as if in denial of his presence. He had expected when they would open again, she would make noise and try to flee, as they usually did.

But when her gaze had fixed on his face, she had done none of those things. Her eyes had been large, innocent in their shock. Even though he had worn the mask and goggles at the time, it still felt as if she could see right through him.

He had felt _seen._

It had caused his hesitation, confusion was a foreign flavor to him, but it was one he overcame easily enough; he had orders to follow. The mission was everything. Always. He had wrapped his metal arm around her neck and felt as her struggles died away and she went limp in his hands. He was more careful with her after that. She was a soldier of the enemy and would be until she accepted her new role as a HYDRA asset.

He had known all those things and yet, she had felt so delicate in his grasp. He was careful not to hurt her again, but with time even that desire became something else. A wish to make her comfortable, to tend to her wounds and body, and after that, it had become a deep need of things he didn’t understand.

The metal restraints clamped down on his arms and legs, and in the back of his mind he could hear the screams she had made sitting where he was now. He had listened to them. Continued hearing them long after they had stopped.

He was remembering other screams. Some that sounded like they might be from him, while others, he was the cause of. Hers, though… Hers were different. They reached down into a place he didn’t know existed and tugged at things he didn’t realize were there.

They began to place a catheter into the back of his right hand and he stopped running his fingers over the marks of her presence. He stilled as the liquid was pumped into his veins. Icy cold. He didn’t think he liked the cold. She was anything but.

Her fear had piqued his curiosity. Her anger had sparked a flame. Even now he could feel the fire of her glare, remembered how it threatened to burn him whenever it was directed his way. The last time she had looked at him though, it had been with a different kind of heat. He had watched as her eyes roamed over his face, her gaze warm instead of scorching. Thawing in lieu of igniting. And a little more of the ice had melted away.

A doctor held out a rubber mouthpiece for him. Was it the same one they had used on her? Would he taste her the way he had tasted her against his mouth?

No, he decided after he parted his lips and bit down on the mouthpiece. It tasted like old rubber. Tangy and bitter. And she was sweet and heady. A forbidden well he had pulled from. He would be punished if they found out, he knew that. But he didn’t care. He wanted her more than he feared them.

Just to be near her… it felt precipitous. He was on the edge of something.

But what was he on the edge of? And why couldn’t he see beyond the drop?

He heard them power up the machine. It was familiar, and not only because of the moments it had been used it against her. They had used it on him as well. He didn’t think wasn’t supposed to know that. But he was beginning to remember it.

That was happening more and more since he had brought _her_ to this place. He was beginning to have a sense of continuity. The odd moment of clarity. It told him he had experienced more than these last few days. The fight with the man on the bridge had further solidified the idea in his mind.

Strange, fleeting images flickered across his mind at random after he had confronted the blond man. They were confusing and made little sense. Falling through the frigid air as an outstretched hand reached for him. Being dragged through the snow with a bleeding stump instead of an arm. Lying on a table and being told by a ghastly man that he was now the fist of HYDRA.

He had one of those rare moments now. He saw her reaching toward him, touching his jaw, crumbling a barrier he hadn’t known was there. He held on to that soft expression on her face, remembered the way her fingers felt in his hair. Refused to let it slip away. He breathed in her scent and felt her fire in his ribcage.

He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were going to make him forget her.

_She’s mine,_ he thought as his jaw tightened, teeth biting into rubber. He wouldn’t let them take her from him.

_Please, stop, _a voice cried. A faint echo. It sounded like his voice, but different. Afraid. Cold and alone, his body tied down as the blurry faces above hovered like ghosts. _Why are you doing this to me? I don’t want to forget. Not again._

_Bastard,_ she had said, trembling and pale and covered in sweat. _How could you?_

He hadn’t wanted to. But there was no space for him to exist, not even in his own mind. What little he could take for himself had been in brief, stolen moments. Moments with her where he felt something other than empty cold.

The machine drew nearer, snapping and sparking close enough to make his skin tingle and his hair lift from his scalp. He tried to focus on the sensation of her warmth on his fingers. His mouth consuming her in a way that drew delicious noises from her throat.

And when she had pressed her lips to his it had uprooted something buried and forgotten. It had felt strange. Wonderful.

Dangerous.

_What do you want from me?_ she had asked. Demanded. Accused.

_Nothing,_ he had wanted to say. It would have been a lie.

_Say something!_ she had screamed.

He couldn’t.

_Please,_ she had begged.

The machine was eclipsing over his face now.

_Stop!_

The last cry wasn’t hers.

** _Stop!_ **

The man on his left went flying, his chest caved in by the force of the blow from his metal arm. The restraints were nothing but brittle leaves as he ripped through them, rising to his feet and moving fast. Another doctor dashed for the emergency switch, but he grabbed the back of his head and smashed it into the wall next to the button. It left a stain of red accusation.

The soldiers were moving in, preparing to contain him. But he would not be contained. There was only the mission. The orders may have come from within instead of without, but he would not stop until the objective was complete.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finds the carnage left in the assassin's wake. Not wishing to be his next victim, she bolts for freedom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have arrived!
> 
> Apologies for the delay; this chapter was massive and took a lot of rework and editing. My amazing and talented and patient editor Iampietromaximoff really helped make this chapter what it is. Chock-full of drama, adventure, plot, and angst. Now without terrible, awkward grammar.
> 
> Feedback is loved as always, especially since this chapter is a pivotal moment in the dynamic between the Winter Soldier and Reader.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Violence, death, Winter Soldier whump

A blood-curdling scream rent the air, and the plastic cup slipped from your fingertips.

Adrenaline surged through your chest, your body gripping onto raw instinct, wanting to run from the horrific sound. Your training was too ingrained to let you to succumb to that animal terror, so instead of panicking, you switched to crisis mode.

When the sound of gunfire erupted, you dashed to the sink and crouched behind it, making yourself a smaller target. Searching around desperately for anything in reach you could use as a weapon. There was nothing except for your shoelaces. They could be turned into a garrote in a pinch, but you probably needed your boots on your feet more than you needed a weapon.

There was nothing to do but wait. Wait and listen to the screams and gunfire, growing closer, _louder_, with each second. Had S.H.I.E.L.D. found you? Possibly. But as a general rule, STRIKE didn’t _do_ rescue missions for their operatives. If an agent was captured by the enemy, especially a hostile government, they knew not to expect a risky extraction.

Plus, there usually wasn’t this much screaming when STRIKE raided a compound. Your team used precise infiltrative methods, opting for speed and stealth, not turning the mission into a bloodbath.

And _bloodbath_ is exactly the word you would use to describe what was happening outside your cell.

With one last scream that cut off abruptly and violently, silence reigned. It was loud and oppressive to your ringing ears. You waited, tension making your shoulders ache so you forced your body into a relaxed stance. Whoever came through that door, you would be ready.

The lock turning in the door made you tense again but you stayed in a crouch behind the toilet-sink. Your breathing sounding too loud to your own ears. You continued to wait for the door to open…

…but it never did.

You peeked over the edge of the sink, straining the limits of your hearing for anything at all. No footsteps or voices. The small window in the door was empty. It could be a trap, but why trap someone already in a cage?

Maybe they were trying to draw you out without risking bodily injury to themselves. Again, they could just storm your cell and riddle you with bullets if that were the case.

The only conclusion left to you was either the person on the other side was a sadist and wanted to give you a glimpse of freedom before gunning you down.

Or. The person on the other side wanted you to escape.

Unsure of which was the more likely option, you crept toward the door, moving noiselessly over the concrete on the balls of your feet. You reached out to the door, surprised at how steady your hands were, and you gripped the latch inside the depressed groove of the unlocked door.

With one last steadying breath, you pulled on the latch and pushed the door open. It was heavy but yielded easily on oiled hinges, barely making a sound, and you looked out into the corridor and found you were alone.

This was it, your moment of opportunity. A chance to escape. Or the last day of your life. If you were captured again, you didn’t plan on being taken alive. Either way, you were leaving that cell and never coming back.

You moved down the corridor of cells, hugged to the walls, keeping to the shadows where you could. Now that you weren’t being dragged or carried through the building, you realized the facility was abandoned to some degree. Many of the overhead fluorescent strips were dead or dying, but without fail, each door window you peered through showed an empty isolation room. It seemed you were the entire occupant of the cell block.

You saw something up ahead lying on the floor. Several dark, lumpy shapes that you thought might be abandoned piles of dark clothing. Your heart picked up its steady rhythm once your brain realized what you were seeing.

Corpses; a lot of them. Each one told a different story. Some had gunshot wounds, others had blunt force trauma. Caved-in chests, shattered limbs, bloody concave skulls. There was even one body that was practically torn in half, pulled apart like it had been caught in the claws of a bear.

The bile rose in your throat but you pushed it back down. The casual violence on display was brutal and efficient. Cold. You had no doubts about who had done this. You just didn’t know why.

When you reached the white room you hesitated in the doorway. It was like walking through a solid wall, your body physically resisting returning to the place of so much pain and horror. Known and otherwise.

Pushing past your fear as well as the threshold, you peered inside to see a reflection of the massacre in the corridor. The doctors hadn’t been spared, executed with the same ruthless expertise and precision as the soldiers.

The centerpiece of the room was unavoidable, your eye drawn to it like a dread magnet. The chair looked sinister; the metal device above it a hovering, hollow black beetle. It looked no less innocuous than before, and possibly looked even more haunting with the bodies strewn before it.

But there was something strange about the chair positioned under the device. The metal restraints along the arms and legs were torn and bent back and impossibly, broken. You reached out a hand and ran your fingers over the twisted metal. Forcing down the lump in your throat, you turned away and surveyed the bodies. From their positions in a semicircle around the chair, you assumed this was the origin of the massacre.

Stepping over the dead, carefully but briefly examining each one, you found what you were really looking for. The guards who interacted with you never carried guns; a smart move on their part. But the ones who safeguarded the white room had been fully armed.

You eyed the carbines lying on tile floor or in the hands of the dead guards. None of them had had a chance to be fired and you knew they were fully loaded. But you ultimately decided against taking any of them. They were too awkward and clunky; what you needed was speed and stealth. You unclipped the HK45 with its holster from the dead man’s belt and pulled the weapon free to inspect it. You ejected the box magazine, checked the ammunition, and replaced it once satisfied.

You clipped the weapon to the waistband of your pants and left the room. You didn’t look back.

Your next mission objective was to obtain a working vehicle. The assassin might be under orders or he might have gone AWOL. Both options were shit options, and the last thing you wanted was another face-off. If you had to choose between his life and yours, it wasn’t really a choice at all. But the idea of putting a bullet in him made your stomach turn, and your boots hit the concrete faster.

You didn’t run into anyone as one bland hallway bled into the next. Even the bodies were absent now. The security gates partitioning each corridor and cell block were all open. This only made you more uneasy, not less so. Someone had seemingly paved the way for your escape. You didn’t trust it one bit.

You realized it might not matter in the end; you suspected you were growing lost. Every hallway looked the same, and there weren’t exactly any marked Exit signs. But you kept going, and eventually you felt a backdraft of cold, winter air coming from the corner up ahead. You came to a stop and cautiously peeked around to find a door. Or rather, what was left of one. It lay on the dirt outside, torn off of its hinges, bent in the middle as if it had been hit with a car. But you knew it was no car that had made that dent.

You moved down the short hallway and stopped again to do a quick survey of the dark landscape. You made out the rough lay of the land with the aid of the moon high overhead, which you were grateful for, but it also meant you could be spotted as well.

The frigid nighttime air whipped your face unpleasantly. You definitely weren’t clothed for venturing outside in the winter, so leaving on foot wasn’t an option. You had to find a ride, and fast, because you weren’t going to survive in 30 degree weather wearing tac pants and a tank.

As luck would have it, you saw no sign of the assassin. Some of the tension left your shoulders—relief that perhaps he had left the compound and you wouldn’t have to deal with him. But something nagged at the back of your mind. If he had done all of this, as stated by the evidence, then had he also unlocked your door? Why?

_Why, why, why._ Everything he did made you question why. You had no more answers now than you did when the convoy was attacked. Only more questions. You prayed Rumlow would have the answers, but in order to get back to him in one piece, you had to cover the wide open space ahead of you and find where these assholes were stashing the vehicles.

You took a deep breath, knowing it was the last bit of warm air you would breathe for a while, and bolted from the doorway.

The closest cover was a squat building 100 feet ahead beyond an open dirt area. You were about halfway across when the world flashed white around you.

The searchlight lit you up like a beacon in the dark. You stumbled but didn’t stop, shielding your eyes from the blinding light. Your heart exploded in your chest when you heard a shout followed by the telltale report of a M134 Minigun. Bullets impacted the frost-bitten earth behind you, tearing up the dirt so violently you could feel the force of it through the soles of your boots.

You kept going, heart pounding wildly as your legs pumped faster. You were exposed, moving target practice, and if you stopped you were a bloody, pockmarked corpse.

You were twenty feet from the building when you knew you weren’t going to make it. The realization hit you in the chest like a punch, despair making you choke on the freezing air.

A figure separated from the shadows, directly out from behind the corner you were hoping to reach, and headed straight at you.

You didn’t have time to stop or even change direction. The figure grabbed you, spun you around, and held on tight enough to knock the air from your lungs. You heard the sharp _clang_ of bullets impacting hard metal, and you turned your head to see sparks flying off a silver arm.

The assassin was holding up his metal limb, shielding you both from the machine gun fire.

Before you could fully process what was happening, he grunted and stumbled forward.

Without hesitation, you grabbed onto the straps of his harness and pulled him the last few feet around the corner into the safety of the shadows.

You blinked at the sunspots from the blinding searchlight, trying to clear your vision and catch your breath. Your lungs burned and your nose and fingers were beginning to go numb. _Shit._ The building you were hiding behind wasn’t nearly as large as you thought it was, and if you moved out of cover you’d be exposed again.

You turned your head and openly stared at the assassin, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was leaning against the painted brick wall, holding his left side as puffs of white air escaped his lips.

No time to sit and wait; they would be on you soon. You pulled the pistol out of the holster and flicked the safety off.

He looked up at you through damp strings of hair, his eyes hard and wary. But you simply put your hand on his shoulder and pushed him away from the corner, moving in to occupy the space, your back to the wall. You edged carefully toward the corner, foggy breaths swirling in front of your face as you steadied your hands.

With great care, you glimpsed around the bend, noting where the searchlight was located before pulling back. It was a good thing too, because machine gun fire peppered the ground and the edge of the building, breaking away chunks and forcing you to shield your face from the concrete shrapnel.

You ignored the gunfire and focused your thoughts, laying out in your mind the image you had glimpsed. You marked the elevated catwalk, the guard towers, and the area where the gunner and searchlight operator would be.

The deafening rapid-fire rotary of the machine gun went silent. They were either replacing the feed belt or getting ready to move on your position. This was your one shot.

Just as you were about halfway turned around the corner, you were hauled back by a hard grip on your upper arm. A rain of bullets slammed into the corner right where you had been standing; the spotlight operator using a carbine to cover his ally as he reloaded the machine gun.

You stared at the assassin as your heart raced in your chest from the near miss. If he hadn’t pulled you back, you would have been a block of bloody Swiss cheese on the ground. Gratitude plucked at your throat.

He watched you in turn after he removed his hand, once again holding onto his side. He tilted his head, as if listening for something, and then he gave you a tiny nod.

You pivoted your arm around the corner, braced your shoulder against the wall, and fired five shots.

The first bullet shattered the searchlight in a shower of sparks, plunging the yard into darkness. The second and third impacted the gunner—you heard the heavy clang of him dropping the machine gun—but you knew you had missed the searchlight operator when you heard panicked shouts in German.

You pulled back quickly and leaned back against the wall, internally wincing. You should have taken out all three targets. Now he would call for help. _Sloppy._

Sensing eyes on you, you turned your head and found the assassin watching closely, his eyes holding an odd expression in them.

“I have three bullets left,” you told him stonily. The high of combat had always given you clarity and focus, and for the first time in days you felt in control. “Am I going to have to use them on you?”

The assassin eyed you for a moment before shaking his head. And then he slid several inches down the wall, his feet skidding across the hard earth as he tried to catch himself. Only then did you notice the dark liquid pooling around his left leg, staining the ground.

You didn’t think twice about it when you tucked the gun into the stolen holster and grabbed his arm, wincing at the freezing bite of the metal, but you didn’t let go; you kept him on his feet long enough for him to steady himself. The sharp scent of copper carried on the winter air, making your stomach twist.

“You’re hit,” you said, your tone no longer as steady as it was. He didn’t respond, but his harsh confirmed it nonetheless. “We gotta move. Can you walk?”

He looked up at you, his brows furrowed as he studied your face. He looked almost confused.

_“Can you walk?”_ you repeated, impatient as you heard more shouts in the distance. It wouldn’t take them long to find you.

“Yes.” His answer was strained as he rasped out, voice like gravel. You tried not to shiver, telling yourself it was just the cold. Your fingers and nose were now quite numb, and it wouldn’t be long before you couldn’t pull a trigger or hotwire a car.

“Where are the vehicles?” you asked quickly. Your hands were still on his arm, and though the metal was cold, it wasn’t freezing like it should have been. You wondered if it had some kind of internal heating mechanism to keep it from freezing.

“There,” he said with a nod of his head toward the other side of the main prison complex.

“Come on.” You instructed, not waiting for him as you let go of his arm and moved. You made it maybe twenty feet before looking back, hearing his footsteps becoming more and more unstable. You saw he was favoring his right leg and was putting as little pressure on his left as possible.

Biting your lip, you weighed your options. If he kept on like that, he was going to slow you down. And if he collapsed altogether, you didn’t think you’d have the strength or energy to get him on his feet again.

With an anxious curl of your fingers, you dashed back to him. The assassin stopped when you reached him again, his expression was unreadable. Figuring if he’d wanted to murder you by now he would have done so, you reached out and cautiously pulled his metal arm away from his side, and braced your shoulders beneath it. His breath seemed to catch and he wobbled on his feet, but you managed to keep him upright.

You didn’t say a word, and neither did he. The feel of his metallic arm across your shoulder blades, the hard lines and planes of it pressing against your skin, it made you feel uneasy. Evoked memories you needed to forget.

You also wanted to ignore the feel of his weight against your side, but he was so damned _warm,_ bordering on hot, his body heat a balm against the cold. You were starting to lean against him, using him for warmth as much as he was using you for support. And goddamn if it didn’t bring you a modicum of comfort, too.

You deliberately shut the thoughts from your mind. Survival was the priority. Nothing else mattered.

You listened carefully as you both made your way to the squat building, alert for any signs you were being followed. The shouts hadn’t drawn any closer, though you thought you could hear footsteps echoing off the brick walls of the buildings. You realized too late the footsteps belonged to someone else as a silhouette pulled out from the interior of the garage.

The assassin didn’t hesitate. He lashed out so fast you could barely track it, hitting the man in the chest with his right fist. But the strike lacked real strength; it only made the man stumble, so you pulled out your firearm in one swift movement and pulled the trigger.

He fell to the ground. You knew he was dead without having to check. At this range, you couldn’t miss a headshot. His bulky torso had registered in your mind as a Kevlar vest, and you had responded accordingly.

You killed him with unfeeling efficiency. But when the dim light of the interior garage revealed his face, you froze. You knew him.

_“Jones?”_ you whispered, confused. Not that he could respond. After all, you had just murdered him. A member of STRIKE. A teammate. The kid was only in his mid-twenties, born and raised in the cornfields of Iowa. He was still green. Had been.

_Someone will have to tell his mom he’s not coming home,_ you thought faintly, automatically, your shocked mind already detaching from the horrific act.

Had the rest of your team come to rescue you? Had you just committed one of the worst offenses possible and killed an ally in friendly fire?

It didn’t make sense. Jones was alone. And even though he held a familiar special-issue M4 carbine, he was dressed in plain black tac gear. No STRIKE patch on his shoulders.

It didn’t make sense. He shouldn’t be in plain tac gear. He shouldn’t be alone. And he should have called out before engaging.

_It didn’t make sense—_

You were shaken out of your growing numbness when the assassin began to weigh more heavily on your arm, and you realized he was sinking towards the ground. In the light cast by the overhead fluorescents you could see the extent of his blood loss by the shine of wet liquid coating his left leg.

You hissed between your teeth and pulled him into the garage, frantically glancing around for a suitable getaway car. You stumbled and nearly lost your balance as the collapsing assassin became mostly deadweight. Before you could lose him entirely, you leaned him against the side of a plain black van.

_Guess we’re picking this one._

“Hey,” you said, trying to get his attention as your fingers curled into his shoulders. His eyes were closed and his face was unnaturally pale.

“Hey. _Hey,_ c’mon. Stay with me.” You thought about shaking him but thought better of it. “Don’t die on me now.”

He slowly opened his eyes, shifting his blue gaze to yours. His expression was hazy but he managed to focus on your face.

“Good. That’s good,” you muttered, trying to sound encouraging. “Stay here.” As if he was going anywhere, half-dead as he was.

You let him go and waited to see if he would collapse, but he managed to stay upright against the van. Satisfied enough, you backed around the van and ran around to the driver’s side, finding it unlocked. You got into the seat and searched, hoping to find keys, and they practically fell into your lap when you pulled down the sun visor.

Finally, some good fucking luck—further proven when you put the keys in the ignition and the van started. And it had almost a full tank of gas.

Not wanting to tempt fate by remaining a second longer, you turned the heat to max and got out, stumbling as you did so. You couldn’t remember when you had started to shiver, but your hands were almost insensate from the cold now.

The assassin didn’t look much better. When you returned to him, he was leaning with his head back against the van, his eyelids barely opening at your approach. And when you put your shoulder under his right arm, he almost dragged you down with him.

“Just a few more feet,” you spoke between strained breaths. He was even heavier than he looked, and it took the remainder of your strength to pull him to the passenger side door. You opened it and looked up at the seat helplessly. There was no way you could get him inside on your own.

Apparently, he didn’t need it. The assassin reached inside with his metal hand and pulled himself up, falling back into the seat with a sharp inhalation as he bared his teeth. He was nearly sheet-white now and his forehead was beaded with sweat despite the freezing temperature.

You didn’t waste any time running back to the driver’s side, even as your mind frantically yelled in big red warning neon, _What are you doing! Why are you taking that killing machine with you! Leave him or you’ll end up a bloodied corpse!_

The voices went ignored. You threw the van into reverse, spun out of the garage, and shifted into forward drive. You followed the concrete drive, pressing down the accelerator when you saw the chain-link fence at the end of the drive. You smashed through the rusted links with ease.

Hitting something with a car had never felt so damn good.

You sped down the road as fast as you reasonably could without spinning out the van, but the concrete road was cracked and clearly not maintained. Each jostle made you wince, and you prayed the assassin wouldn’t bleed out faster because of the rough ride.

You told yourself he had to stay alive because he was the only one that could give you the answers you needed. It wasn’t entirely convincing.

Two pairs of headlights flashed in your rearview mirror, followed by the flash of muzzle fire.

“Are you fucking _kidding me—“_

The crack of bullets impacting the side panels interrupted you, the sound deafening in the confined space, but the siding must have been armored because none of them broke through.

You swerved and dodged, creating a moving target for them while also making it impossible for them to pass you. There was a turn-off at the road ahead, and you could see smooth, black asphalt in the dark.

You had made it to a highway. What should have been cause for celebration now made your job much more dangerous. It was narrow and two-laned; you swerved into it so fast it almost tipped the van, but you straightened out and put the accelerator to the floor. Oak trees lined the road so thick you couldn’t see past the bends in the road.

“Give me the gun.”

You nearly swerved off the road at the sound of the gravelly voice next to you. You glanced at the assassin and saw he had his considerable gaze leveled at you.

“What? _Why?”_

“Now.”

You scowled.

“If you think I’m just going to—“

You flinched as another cascade of bullets rained down against the back of the van. Sooner or later, one was going to hit a tire.

“I can stop them,” he answered, his tone still calm but there was a slide edge to it. He held out his hand, the metal appendage reflecting the blue neon light of the digital clock. You internally cursed.

_“Fine,”_ you snapped, irritated but keeping your hands firmly on the wheel. “But you’re going to have to grab it. I’m preoccupied at the moment.”

You kept your eyes hard on the road, even as you sensed him moving across the middle and into your personal space. His warm breath puffed against your ear, noticeable somehow even with the heat blasting through the vents. You remained rigidly still as you felt the metal hand graze across the tops of your thighs as he reached across your lap to the other side of your hips. You heard and felt him tug the weapon free of the holster.

You didn’t realize you had held your breath until he retreated back to his seat.

“Only two shots left,” you commented, gripping the wheel tighter.

“I know,” he answered in a low murmur. Before you could react, he rolled down the window, grabbed the edge of the door, and pulled himself up, sitting on the edge of the window frame.

_What the hell is he doing?!_

“What the _hell _are you doing?!” you shouted aloud.

He didn’t respond, though you weren’t entirely sure he had heard your indignant yelling over howl of the wind whipping past the van. You kept your fingers wrapped tightly around the wheel, keeping the van as steady as possible. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?!” you shouted for good measure, just in case he _could_ hear you.

The resounding _boom_ of a gunshot was your answer. You were shocked to see the headlights in the rearview mirror begin to weave, as if the driver was drunk. You would have been impressed if you weren’t about to probably die.

There was a bend to the road coming up, and you could see the assassin was only holding onto the door with his flesh hand, his mechanical one being used to aim the gun. There wasn’t enough time to warn him.

_Oh, hell._

Just before you made the sharp turn, you quickly reached over and caught his leg just above the ankle. It was the right move; as soon as the van moved sharply to the left, the assassin lost his balance and his leg nearly slipped from your grasp. But you held on tight, fingers desperately digging in as you kept him from tumbling out of the van.

The first car behind you never made the turn, instead careening off into the forest and smashing into the trunk of a tree. The second vehicle was hot on your heels—at least until the assassin took his second shot.

The car swerved as the entire front of it erupted into flames, and it too went hurtling off the highway. An explosion of light followed, briefly igniting the forest in yellow before it faded into a deadly ember blaze.

When you felt him begin to move back inside the van, you quickly let go, putting your hands on the wheel so tightly your knuckles went white. The assassin maneuvered himself down from the door and collapsed into the seat with a barely audible grunt, his hand once again on his left side.

He then held the gun out to you, his metal fingers wrapped around the barrel with the grip pointed in your direction. You both knew the clip was empty, but even an empty gun was handled as if it was armed. Every soldier knew that.

You took the stolen gun without a word, replacing it in the pilfered holster. There would be ammunition where you were going, and there was no sense throwing away a perfectly good weapon.

With the immediate crisis over, you didn’t know what to say to him. _Thanks for coming to my rescue, and also, what the fuck?_

You could see him staring at you out of the corner of your eye, and you tried not to react. Tried _not_ to notice the heat that was spreading up your chest, which couldn’t be blamed on the warm air vents. Or the way your heart beat a little faster, which had nothing to do with your daring escape a few moments ago.

He turned his head forward, leaned against the seat, and said nothing either. The silence stretched on and you focused on the road rather than disrupt it. You were never good at making small talk, anyway.

Thanks to the dashboard GPS, which you briefly used to find your location and reorient yourself to the world, you chucked it out the window so you couldn’t be tracked. According to the map, you were a half hour north of the edge of the DC metro area. The dark Maryland highway was mostly deserted—unsurprising at this time of night. Nearly midnight. When you had looked at the date on the GPS, your heart had sunk in your chest.

You had been held captive for three full days. You didn’t know what to do with that information. It certainly didn’t feel real. You felt like you had been held in that place for much, much longer.

There was nothing to do except drive the speed limit, pray the van didn’t have any other trackers on it, and hope that the assassin sitting next to you didn’t die.

He hadn’t said a word since asking for the gun. You glanced over at him at least every couple of minutes, checking to see he was still breathing. Every time you had looked, his eyes had been stared straight forward, unreadable and reflecting the sparse headlights on the road.

It was time to check on him again. Your glance was quick, expecting him to be the same, but you did a double take. His eyes were closed, thick lashes lying against his cheeks.

“Hey.”

No response.

“Wake up,” you said a little more loudly. The tightness in your voice betrayed the demand you were going for.

When he remained as he was, you detached your right hand from the wheel and reached over. But then you stopped short, your fingertips a few inches from the red painted star on his silver shoulder. You didn’t want to startle him, knowing one blow of that arm could crush your chest or crack your skull. You’d seen it in action too many times, both on your teammates and on your captors, to not respect its deadly power.

“Can you hear me? _Hey!”_

His eyes fluttered open, languid and heavy, and then his gaze shifted and focused on your hand hovering near his arm. You retracted it quickly.

“Don’t go to sleep,” you said, feeling his pales eyes on you. “Stay awake. Okay? We only have another thirty minutes to drive.”

You didn’t expect a response, so when he asked, “To where?” you almost jumped.

“A S.H.I.E.L.D. safe house.”

_“No.”_

His answer was so prompt and intense that you turned to stare at him. His eyes were hard on your face.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. can’t be trusted.”

“You’re the second person to tell me that,” you remarked heavily as you looked back at the road. The traffic was thicker now that you were closer to the city; the streetlights overhead drove away the rural darkness. “It’s an old location. No one’s used it in months and it’s not even on the current safe house list. Only the STRIKE team uses it.”

You pressed your lips together. _And half of them are dead because you killed them,_ you didn’t add. You didn’t want to think about that now and you knew it would be smarter not to. Better to put it all away until you were at a safe location.

But as the heavy silence drew out between you and you navigated the traffic lanes of the city, you couldn’t help but remember all the pain and misery this man had caused you. He had massacred not just your teammates, but your friends. People whose lives you had saved, and had saved yours. A woman and her son would have died if you hadn’t been prepared to sacrifice yourself so they could escape.

He had prevented you from leaving that place when you had first broken free. He had bodily carried you to be at the mercy of cruel hands, and had watched you scream without a word.

All of that was there, and you could never forget it; but he had also killed all of those people. The guards and the doctors, all of them. To break you free? You didn’t know. You couldn’t imagine why he would do such a thing, least of all for you.

Even as you denied other memories, they flooded your thoughts. Soft touches. The heated scrape of flesh. The release of pleasure and the resounding relief afterwards.

And then the shame arrived, heating your cheeks and making your eyes prickle.

You wouldn’t tell anyone what had happened in that cell. It would be buried with you in your grave.

By the time you turned onto the right street, found the correct house, and drove up the driveway, your muscles were taut and your jaw ached from the tightness you had maintained most of the way through the capital.

Without a word, you parked behind the house and turned off the van. You pulled out the keys and then shoved them into your pocket and opened the driver’s side door. The motion detector picked you up and a light flared to life, making you blink your eyes. The illumination helped you find the keys to the house once you made your way onto the back porch. They were hidden behind a specific shingle in the wall next to the door, and you pried it free. The keys were inside the hollow, and you breathed in relief when you slid them into the lock and the knob turned in your hand.

At the sound of the van door closing and uneven footsteps on gravel, you turned back around. The assassin was trying to limp his way toward you, his metal hand braced against the hood for support.

Just like that, the stony wall around your heart crumbled, just a little, and you walked up to him and ducked under his normal arm. Without a word, he wrapped it across your shoulders and allowed you to help take the burden of his weight as you led him up the steps and into the house.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when reader thinks she has a moment to breathe, the assassin makes life difficult for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another big beefy part! The mood of the chapter is "scared but horny" with a little bit of sad Winter Baby and plot thrown in. This is one of my fave chapters so let me know what you think!
> 
> Chapter warnings: Blood, wound care, reader being a real awkward mess

0017 EST, January 12th, 2014

You guided the assassin to the couch after having felt along the wall for the light switch and flicking it on. You tried your best to lower him onto the cushions as gently as possible and not dump him like a sack of potatoes, no matter how tired your arms were. It was difficult; with his tactical suit and the metal arm you guessed he weighed at 250 pounds. Most likely more.

“Easy,” you said when he braced his metal fingers on the edge of the cushions and pain flashed across his face.

He met your eye, that same look of edgy wariness you had seen a few times was there very much still in place. You got the sense he was assessing you, taking your measure, but then his gaze quickly shifted away. His stare went blank and he seemed to sink within himself. Something was going on in there, something you couldn’t see or perhaps even guess at.

Unfortunately, you didn’t have the luxury of keeping your distance, so all you could do was hope he didn’t do to you what he had done to his former allies.

Leaving him on the couch, you went to the hallway closet to raid it for what you would need. If memory served, it should be well-stocked with supplies and clothing. You found it was, cataloging what you needed: a large white medical kit, an armful of towels, a blanket, a flashlight, and a grey sweater jacket. That last one you pulled out and tugged on, zipping it up your chest. The heat had been set to fifty degrees to keep the pipes from freezing in the winter, and you turned the heat up on your way back to the living room.

You carefully pulled out the supplies you wanted and made your way back to the living room, placing the goods on the nearby glass coffee table. The assassin’s face was pale and sallow in the garish light of the ceiling fan lamp, his left side and leg almost black with blood.

When you sat on the edge of the coffee table and reached for his chest, he flinched away, his eyes wild but glassed over. His hands clenched and released in rapid succession, but he didn’t seem to know exactly how he wanted to react himself.

You backed away a few inches, palms up to show you meant him no harm. “I need to check your wounds. Unless you want me to take you to a hospital.”

His gaze flickered from your hands to your face. When he didn’t respond, you said, “Yeah, didn’t think so. I need to stop the bleeding. I’m going to be as gentle as I can, okay?”

His taut shoulders loosened and fell marginally, the tightness of his eyes softening just the tiniest bit and he gave a small, single nod.

It was the best you could hope for. Now all you had to do was figure out how to remove his clothing, a task that would be much more difficult than it seemed at first blush. His tac suit had a halter harness strapped across the chest, and the rest of it didn’t seem to have any discernible openings.

_Well, gotta start somewhere._

You slowly reached forward and cautiously unsnapped the weapon harness, pulling it away from his chest. You realized the vest had buttons; you had thought they were simply decoration at first. A ridiculous conclusion, considering how practical the assassin was. You doubted he did much for the aesthetic.

As you unsnapped each button, you watched his face, looking for signs that he was going to lash out. Sweat beaded his forehead and his eyes were glassy with dark circles underneath, but he seemed calm enough. His breathing was uneven. You assumed it was from the pain.

When you finally got through the buttons—so goddamn many of them since they went the entire length of his torso—you very carefully peeled back his vest. The assassin winced but didn’t make a sound when the Kevlar fiber parted from the blood-tacky skin beneath.

There was a lot of it smeared across the left side of his chest and stomach, but most of it was dried and very little of it was fresh. The fact his wounds had clotted was a good sign, but you had no idea how much internal damage there was. He could just as easily bleed to death on the inside.

“All right,” you released a held breath as you eyed the cause of all that blood. “I count two gunshot wounds, one below your ribcage and the other above your hip. I can’t tell how deep they are. Um…”

The assassin moved and you drew your hands back quickly, but he only stripped off the rest of his vest and tossed it to the floor.

You stared. You couldn’t help it. Your eyes fastened onto the place where his artificial left shoulder joined his body, signified by a seam of jagged scars. It was brutal, looking as if the metal had been soldered to flesh without any care or consideration for the man.

Efficient and cruel.

Your eyes wandered over his chest, then. The large pectorals, the defining lines of his abs, the sheer power in his biceps and forearms. You had thought without his bulky gear he would look smaller, less intimidating. If anything, he looked larger and more primal.

You cleared your throat and forced your eyes back down to his bloodied and torn flesh. Methodically moving your focus downward over his clothed left leg, you saw two or three more possible wounds, but you wouldn’t know until…

“Don’t freak out,” you said with a slight wince, “but your pants need to come off.”

You chanced a glance at his face. He remained as immutable as ever, his heavy gaze bore into yours until you looked away. _Christ,_ you could feel your cheeks heating up. You weren’t sure if it was from his glare or the fact you were trying to strip him naked.

“So… do you want me to do it or…?”

Without a word, the assassin reached down and unbuckled the gun holster across his waist. There was a zipper along each side, following the angles of his pelvis. He unzipped them, and without warning, pulled his pants down his hips.

He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“Okay,” you remarked to no one in particular as you quickly looked away. Of course. Why _would _a deadly assassin bother to wear underwear?

_Commandos go commando,_ you thought in a moment of fleeting, anxiety-induced, borderline-hysterical humor. _Oh, God, this is really my life now. Mad scientists and sexy underwear-less assassins._

You managed to keep your face blank as you took deep steadying breaths. You weren’t even sure_ why_ you were freaking out. You had seen plenty of your teammates naked, an unavoidable occurrence when you went on overnight missions together, and you hadn’t given a shit then.

Of course, none of your teammates had fucked you with their tongues or fingers, either.

Seeing the towels on the coffee table, you grabbed one and held it out in his general direction.

“You can cover up with this.”

Per usual, he remained silent, but you did feel the towel being tugged from your grasp.

You needed to focus, get your shit together, patch up the maybe-friendly killer, figure out what the hell was going on, and plan your next move. The last thing you needed was to be thrown off and sent reeling just because of a little bit of exposed skin.

Or a_ lot_ of exposed skin, as the case was. When you turned back to look at him, his pants were around his calves, his torso entirely bare, and the only thing covering his crotch was a towel that was, in retrospect, _much_ too small.

The fact he was mostly naked vanished from your thoughts when you saw the next two wounds. You winced, leaning closer to peer at them.

“One in the hip and another in the thigh. They’re not bleeding anymore, but… you’re going to want an actual surgeon to remove all of these. So for now, I’m just going to clean and cover them—“

“Take them out.”

Your eyes shot upward to his, finding he was prompted up on his elbows, staring down at you with a hard expression.

“What?” You swallowed as his intense stare stirred something between your thighs. Your body had_ the_ worst timing. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Somehow, his gaze became even harder. You could feel the tension in your pelvis increase likewise, and you became much more belligerent and irritated than you meant to be.

“Listen,_ buddy,”_ you snapped, “this isn’t like the movies. If I go digging in there I will definitely make it worse, and that’s if I _don’t _kill you on accident. The best thing to do is to leave them be and—”

He moved too fast for you to react. Grabbed by the neckline of your jacket, he hauled you off the coffee table and nearly onto his chest where he glared into your face, inches away.

You froze like a rabbit between the wolf’s teeth.

“Take… them out,” he growled. Actually_ growled_. It should have been funny. Instead, it made you feel something close to fear and not far from arousal.

For a moment, you said nothing. Your limbs were taut with distress, your heart pounding in your ears. After a moment you swallowed and blinked to clear your vision. His blue eyes seemed to fill your whole world, but you forced your tumultuous thoughts into something more coherent and focused. There wasn’t _time _for this bullshit posturing. He might be some kind of super badass who can murder two dozen people and then take four bullets from a machine gun, but that didn’t mean you were wrong.

You took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.

“I didn’t bring you here, with me, against all gut instinct and better judgement, _just _so I could watch you bleed out on the couch.”

He blinked. It was the only reaction to your words aside from the curious way his eyes flicked between yours, as if searching for something. After a long, drawn out moment… his expression lost its hard edge and his fingers loosened their grip.

“I won’t,” he mumbled, too softly, too vacantly, and then released you.

With a lingering look you hoped made your irritation clear, you returned to your place on the coffee table and pointedly ignored the way your heart was thrumming in your chest.

Oh, yeah. You were irritated. Even a little scared. You were also undeniably turned on.

_Great._

“Okay.” You muttered, pulling out a pair of forceps and sanitizing them with rubbing alcohol. “I’m just going to make it worse, but if that’s what you want... I’m warning you now though, if I do worsen it, then I really _will_ take you to a hospital.”

He didn’t respond verbally, but he did lean back against the cushions and tensed his jaw as he stared up at the ceiling. You knew that rigid position from experience: he was mentally preparing himself for overwhelming physical pain.

You stared at the wounds and then back up at his face as you said, “I don’t have anything to anesthetize you with—“

“It doesn’t matter,” he cut in, gruff. “No more stalling.”

You would have prickled at his words, but his tone wasn’t cruel or mean. It was unnerved. He knew it would hurt, further confirmed by the fact his normal arm was gripping the back of the couch tightly.

The grim gesture prodded at your thoughts, and it made you wonder what had happened to him to provoke such a reaction. Did he have previous experience with having bullets dug out of him while awake? _God, you hoped not._

You took a deep breath and began to work. You dealt with the highest wound on his side first, wiping at it with iodine, being as gentle as possible as you smoothed the cloth over the damaged skin. You took a pair of forceps and paused when you realized you needed to shine some light into the wound itself to see what you were doing.

He held his metal arm away from his body, the silver forearm propped on the coffee table next to your hip. You were nearly touching him already but you scooted closer, trying to get a better angle of approach. You leaned down and placed your free hand on his flank, feeling the taut muscles under your fingers. You clicked on the flashlight and lightly tapped it against his arm, making a metallic clicking sound.

He peered down at you cautiously, and you indicated the flashlight in your hand.

“Hold this, please.” You aimed the light at his injuries. “Just like that.”

He wrapped his silver fingers around the black handle of the flashlight and pointed it where you had instructed. In doing so, he had to lean the artificial limb against your thigh. You could feel the cold metal through your pants and you struggled against any reaction.

Praying you didn’t pass out yourself, seeing as you weren’t exactly trained to be a field surgeon and go digging around inside someone’s body, you carefully moved the forceps into the illuminated, bloody opening. You could actually _see _the shiny metallic surface of the bullet. It should have been much deeper than it was, considering a goddamn machine gun had shot him. You set your jaw and tried to steady your hands as you dipped the forceps into the wound and very delicately grabbed the slug.

You heard the shift in his breathing that told you he felt it. You paused and searched for something comforting to say.

“Remember to breathe,” you told him. “Wiggle your toes.”

You glanced up at his face and saw the confusion there, settled in a severe crease between his brows. You shrugged and felt your cheeks heat. “That’s what my dentist tells me when something is gonna hurt. It’s silly but it works.”

His gaze became even more piercing if that was possible, so you cleared your throat and returned your attention to your task. You grabbed hold of the slug again and began to pull it out. It took a little bit of wiggling and you went slow, trying your hardest not to cause any additional damage.

The couch creaked ominously as the assassin dug his fingers into the woodwork underneath the fabric. You couldn’t imagine the kind of pain he was experiencing—your own gunshot wound had been nothing more than a deep graze—but he bore it in silence.

It was unnerving. You almost wished he _would _make some kind of noise, if only for his own benefit. He certainly didn’t need to hold back on your account, and it couldn’t be healthy to repress so damn much. After all, this wasn’t the first time you’d notice him do something like that before.

Pleasure or pain, he seemed to just… hold it back.

Finally, the slug came free. You stared down at the warped piece of bloody metal, almost fascinated, before you put it down on one of the towels nearby.

One down. Three to go.

You continued onward, freeing the second slug in his side with as much ease as the first. You tried to be more careful with the bullet in his hip, suspecting it was close to the bone. The one in his thigh was also difficult. The thick wall of muscle did not make it easy for the bullet to be extracted, and you were sure you had caused some additional tearing on its removal. You kept mumbling apologies, wincing whenever his leg twitched, but he remained quiet.

The assassin may have carried the pain with stoic silence but it was definitely affecting him. Sweat trickled down his forehead and dampened his hair, his cheekbones were so prominent he looked almost gaunt, and his pupils had contracted to dark pinpricks. His fingernails had ripped small tears into the couch. The pain you were inflicting must have been excruciating, yet the control he had over his own body in the face of it was impressive, and you had to admit, a little concerning. It didn’t seem normal.

You were able to extract all four bullets first and then patch the wounds after since there was so little blood to speak of. After washing them with iodine one last time, you pulled them closed and sealed them shut with a cutting-edge medical glue, one that would expedite the healing as well as protect the wound from infection. You finished them off by taping gauze over them, protecting the glue and skin until he could get more thorough medical treatment.

You were beginning to suspect he might not need it. The assassin’s injuries should have been much worse; deeper with much more damage. You didn’t understand it at first, but then realized it was surprisingly familiar.

You had seen Steve Rogers take a few nasty blows; wounds that should have put him in a hospital. Yet somehow, more often than not, he simply walked them off and returned the next day looking as if his wounds were several days old.

The idea that the assassin could be enhanced or even gifted should have crossed your mind before now, but to be fair, you had been a little preoccupied.

“It’s done,” you said, breathing out in a long exhale. Your fingers were coated with red and orange, and they trembled with fatigue. You began to clean up the mess when his voice caused you to halt.

“Thank you.”

You looked up and found his gaze already settled on your face. The sight of those pale blue eyes watching you so closely sent heat through your cheeks.

“You took them for me,” you said, trying to sound blasé and failing when your voice slightly cracked. “It’s the least I could do.”

Needing a moment to collect yourself, you stood and picked up the soiled towels. Walking around the couch, you went to the washing machine in the hallway and tossed them in before going to the kitchen and throwing out the bloodied wipes. You went back to the living room and returned to your perch on the coffee table, grabbing the medical kit and pulling it toward you. Digging through it for a moment, you found what you were looking for and pulled out a bottle of pills, ones you remembered from your field training.

Sensing a heated gaze on the back of your neck, you nervously twisted off the top and shook four pills into your hand. When you turned to where the assassin was still lying on the couch, you saw he was watching you closely. He seemed to do that a lot, and it made you feel self-conscious.

“What is that?” he asked, his tone matching the suspicion is his pale eyes.

“A drug created by S.H.I.E.L.D.’s medical doctors for injured agents in the field.”

His eyes narrowed. You already knew where this was going, but you pushed on, hoping you were wrong and he would act like a reasonable person.

“It suppresses bacterial growth and promotes healing. I donno, something they cooked up in the labs—“

“No.”

He stared at you. You glowered back.

“I don’t want it.”

“Do you_ want_ those wounds to become infected?” you snapped. “Because that’s what’s going to happen.”

He ignored you and actually tried to sit up, so you said, “Nu-uh,” and placed your palm against his bare chest. It was all too easy to push him back down, his strength sapped by his wounds. His skin was warm under your fingers and you quickly pulled back.

He looked up through his strands of sweat-darkened hair and you met his gaze unflinchingly.

“Why are you so hell-bent on suffering through this?”

You weren’t sure why you asked. Why you even cared whether he was in pain or not. He didn’t answer, and instead broke off eye contact, looking away.

Your anger vanished, leaving you feeling_ tired_. All you wanted was to crawl under the covers of the only bed in the entire small house, but you couldn’t. Somehow, it had taken root in your mind that the assassin was _your_ responsibility. Whatever happened to him, whatever he did, it was on you.

You got up and went into the kitchen, proceeding to rummage through the cupboards until you found what you were looking for. Most of the shelves were filled with MRE and canned foods, but you found the bottles of supplemented water without much difficulty. You knew you were dehydrated and probably malnourished, so you took two from the cupboard instead of just one.

“At least drink this,” you muttered as you returned. You held one out to him, the blue liquid sloshing mutedly inside the bottle. He eyed it as if it were an IED. When he neglected to move, you squared your jaw. “You _need_ to replace your electrolytes.”

He studied your face for a moment, and then carefully took the bottle from your hand. You stared at the metal fingers wrapped around the curved plastic, so lightly it didn’t even bend the material. You were curious as to how sensitive those fingers were.

_Nope. Don’t go there._

“What you probably need is a blood transfusion, but this particular safe house doesn’t come with its own blood bank,” you remarked as you sat back on the coffee table, facing him as you unscrewed the top of your bottle.

You were relieved to see he had pulled his pants back up around his hips while you’d been in the kitchen. You weren’t so happy he was up in a sitting position. At least he was leaning back against the cushions. In the event that he did pass out, you wouldn’t have to carry him anywhere else. Or deal with him cracking his skull open.

The assassin made no remark to your dry comment and instead downed the bottle in one go. You were pulled from your sour thoughts at the sight of his large Adam’s apple bobbing with each gulp.

_Oh, for fuck’s sake—_

Needing a distraction, you pulled out the bottle of pills he’d rejected. You opened it, tapped out two pills into your palm, and popped them into your mouth, swallowing with the supplemented water. After the torture, dehydration, exposure to the elements, and the incredible psychological stress, you hoped they could tide you over until you sought actual medical help. The beating your immune system had taken, not to mention the _actual _beating at the hands of the soldiers, was going to take a nasty toll. Already the fatigue and pain was settling into your bones and muscles like a dusting of broken glass.

You realized the assassin was staring at you again.

_“So,”_ you prompted suddenly, “Do you have a name?”

He blinked and slightly tilted his head, mouth forming into a frown.

“I… I don’t know.” He paused, chewed on his lip, and added. “I think it’s… Bucky.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“_Bucky?_ That’s a… unique name.” You had almost said it was a _weird _name, but you decided to try the diplomatic approach rather than the dick-ish one.

The assassin remained quiet, his eyes staring somewhere near your knees. He looked almost lost in thought.

It didn’t seem as if he would say anything else, so you cleared your throat and said, “Well… my name is—“

“I know who you are.”

You snapped your mouth shut, feeling the corners of your mouth tug into a tight frown.

“Okay. Then maybe you can tell me why you killed the people you worked for and opened my cell door.” You hadn’t meant to sound so scathing and annoyed, but now that the danger of him bleeding out had passed, a restless urgency for answers was taking hold of you.

The assassin met your eyes only briefly before they slid away again.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know much, do you.”

You could have winced at the ice in your cold words, but it was the effect they had on him that made you feel like a real piece of shit.

He looked downright miserable as he stared at his hands and said in a faint voice, “I’m sorry.”

His odd change in behavior and personality made you remember this wasn’t the first time he had acted this way. There was something very wrong with him.

Guilt needled at you. When you spoke again, it was with a gentler tone. “What _can_ you tell me?”

A blank look passed over his face, followed by furrowing brows.

“It’s… hard. There’s fragments. Bits and pieces, but I can’t… focus on them. I try, and… they slip away.”

It was the most words you had ever heard him speak at once. But the next ones made your breath catch in your throat.

“I think… they did this to me?”

He raised his eyes to meet yours, a pained expression that was disturbing to see. He looked like a soul lost in the wilderness. “I can’t remember,” he added, his eyes trailing down to stare near your shoulder again.

Perhaps you should have been afraid. Or at least alarmed that you were stuck with a killer assassin with retrograde amnesia, but his words, his behavior, everything about him prodded at something vulnerable within you. A chink in your well-hewn armor.

You had maimed. You had killed. You had done truly despicable things in the line of duty, but at the end of the day, you could put all of that away in nice, tidy little boxes. But this man refused to go into a box quietly. Every time you tried to pack him away, to forget what you had done with him in the loneliness of your isolation and treat him like an enemy at worst and a hostile ally at best, you just… couldn’t.

He had dug himself under your skin and seemed intent on staying there.

“Who were those men?” you asked, making an effort to get him to keep talking. “The ones who kept and tortured me?”

“HYDRA,” he replied simply.

You sighed heavily. No matter how many times you heard that name, it was still difficult to swallow. You made one last-ditch effort at denial.

“The last time I checked, HYDRA doesn’t exist anymore. S.H.I.E.L.D. wiped them out in Nazi Germany.”

He shrugged. “They didn’t.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes, and instead rubbed your tongue across the front of your teeth. To say this man was taciturn was putting it mildly.

“Okay. For the sake of argument, let’s say they _are _HYDRA. Why would they go after Mister Kartal? And why take me?”

The assassin set his jaw into a grim line, but this time when he spoke, he met your eyes.

“Because there is no S.H.I.E.L.D. HYDRA has been within them from the beginning.”

You could only blink at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Kartal was a HYDRA agent stationed within S.H.I.E.L.D. He took steps to go to the FBI and expose HYDRA in exchange for protection. I was ordered to kill him, his family, and all of the agents involved.”

His pale eyes drifted over your face.

“Except you.”

You felt like you couldn’t draw a full breath of air.

“I don’t understand,” was all you could say.

“I was ordered to bring you in. Alive.”

“But… why?”

He looked away.

“They didn’t tell me.”

You sensed he wasn’t being entirely truthful, but then he was talking again before you could follow-up.

“What I can tell you is that the man who gave me my orders is S.H.I.EL.D. I don’t know his name, only that he has a lot of power in your organization. And he’s implementing his plan in a few hours.”

You frowned, remembering the conversation that had taken place in your cell.

“The man who asked you all those questions? Was that him?”

The assassin studied you before nodding once.

“Do you know what he’s planning?” you asked, dread sitting in the pit of your stomach.

The assassin pressed his lips firmly together. “He has been working towards this for a long time. The ability to assassinate millions of people in an instant. And at your headquarters, using three Helicarriers, he’ll be able to achieve that.” He swallowed once before adding, “The launch is in less than twelve hours.”

You were glad you were sitting down already, because you were fairly sure you would have planted ass-first into the carpet. Everything he was saying was unreal, unbelievable. And yet… you couldn’t deny things had gone horribly wrong from the moment the first vehicle of the convoy had flipped in a plume of fire and smoke. That mission, not to mention the escort route itself, had been kept secret; from the feds, from the state department, even from S.H.I.E.L.D. besides the members of STRIKE who had been there.

Yes, you had sensed something was wrong from the start. But still, you hadn’t realized the situation was so fucking dire. Like, world-ending, apocalyptic dire.

“I have to do something,” you said flatly. It was your responsibility. Especially if you and this man were the only ones aware of what was really going on inside S.H.I.E.L.D.

The assassin’s expression changed, and at first you couldn’t understand what it was. But then you realized he was… almost smiling. But God, you had never seen such a sad, hollow smile in your entire life.

“The last mission directive he gave me was to wait for… for Steve Rogers to arrive at the Triskelion. I had orders to kill him.”

His words should have disturbed you; instead, they filled you with sudden hope. You got to your feet and exclaimed, “That’s it!”

The assassin looked up at you, wide-eyed.

“Captain Rogers!” you explained with a wave of your hand. “He can help! I mean, if you were sent to kill him, he’s definitely not HYDRA, right? He’s not compromised. We have to contact him, tell him what’s going on. And then help him stop the launch, and…”

Your words trailed off, dying as you caught sight of the expression on his face. You had thought he would have been glad to hear your idea. Apparently, were wrong.

He looked down and sighed through his nostrils.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?” you asked, scrunching your face. You were completely confused over his reaction.

“He won’t trust me.” He curled the metal fingers of his left hand. “Not after… what I’ve done. And I don’t trust me either.”

You sat down slowly on the coffee table again. The ease with which he had spoken earlier was gone, and he had returned to sounding unsure, his speech halting and hesitant. There was no mistaking the shame there; you of all people would recognize it.

“I don’t even know who I am, or… what kind of person I was.”

“Hey.”

He looked up, dragging his eyes as if with great reluctance. You met his blue eyes steadily. He might be unsure, but you weren’t.

“By the sound of it, none of that was your fault. Those men, those people did something to you. Brainwashing, maybe.” You sighed and ran a hand through your hair, recalling just what they had done to you by the aching points along your scalp. “Psychological torture and manipulation falls under the purview of HYDRA if I remember my history lessons correctly.”

At the mention of HYDRA in a historical context, something tugged at the back of your head. _History._ S.H.I.E.L.D.’s history. There was something there you needed to remember. It was too bad history had been your worse subject at the Academy.

Your mind tried to grab the loose thread to pull it, but it was just out of reach—

“But…”

You blinked, focusing your attention on the assassin. He was staring at you again, and you were alarmed to see he looked on the verge of tears.

His voice was soft and edged in horror as he stammered, “You… how can you try to defend my actions? After… after what I did to you?”

A heavy stone dropped in your stomach, splashing with a ripple of dread. This was the closest either of you had gotten to acknowledging what had happened aloud. You pressed your lips together and looked away. You couldn’t think about that right now. There were bigger issues to deal with.

“You may not know what kind of person you are,” you said quietly, “but I can tell you this much. You’re the kind that saves someone from being tortured to death. And you’re the kind that wants to prevent more lives from being lost.”

When you looked back at him, his eyes were no longer as glassy but his expression was so sad it was almost sweet. And in that moment, all you wanted to do was run your fingers through his soft hair and tell him it was going to be okay. The urge was so strong your hand actually moved across your thigh.

You halted the movement and rose to your feet so quickly you saw spots in your vision.

“You need sleep and so do I,” you announced, not quite meeting his eye. “Even a couple hours will help clear our heads so we can come up with a better solution for the… HYDRA threat.”

And then you hesitated and looked at him. In fact, you eyed him for so long that he tilted his head and asked in a curious tone, “What?”

You chewed on your lip. This was a bad idea, but what were you going to do? Handcuff him to the couch?

“Can I trust you?”

He searched your eyes, his jaw tensing into a grim expression.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” You took a breath. “Can I trust you not to kill me in my sleep?”

His expression fell; you immediately regretted asking. Or at least, being so cruel about it. Why couldn’t you use your damn head before you opened your mouth? You had just told the guy he had saved your life, and then you go and say something like that. Goddamn _typical._

Before you could continue berating yourself, his face smoothed into that unreadable look you were becoming familiar with.

“I won’t hurt you.”

You hugged your arms in front of you, knowing it made you look defensive but really you were doing it for self-assurance.

“How do you know that? If you’re still under someone’s control, I mean, how do you know you won’t hurt me?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

It was circular logical. A nonsensical appeal. But his tone was open and he managed to hold your gaze without looking away again. You trusted_ he_ believed what he was saying, and that would have to be enough for now.

“All right,” you said slowly. “Can I trust that when I come back out of that bedroom in the morning you’ll still be here?”

His eyes softened in that sorrowful way again.

“Where would I go?”

_I really do have a way of making myself into an asshole every time I open my mouth, don’t I?_ But he did have a point, as sad as it was. Even if he had a safe place to hide, safer than here, he was being hunted just as much as you were. And while you had no doubt he was still dangerous, he was also vulnerable until he was fully healed.

It occurred to you that he needed you. Maybe as much as you needed him.

Realizing he was still staring at you, you cleared your throat and said, “There’s only one bed, so… the couch is all yours.”

The assassin didn’t speak but he nodded once, his eyes dropping to focus on his hands with hard scrutiny. You could almost feel the waves of guilt radiating off of him, and you sighed. Grabbing the blanket you had fetched earlier from off the table, you held it out for him.

“There’s food in the kitchen if you get hungry, and the shower is down the hall. Help yourself to it. I’ll be… in the bedroom. If you need me.”

Not that he would. But you wanted him to understand that whatever this weird thing between you was, you weren’t afraid he would hurt you. Maybe you should have been, but you weren’t.

He stared at you for a moment before taking the blanket. You turned around, your cheeks heating up again, and you prepared to make a quick exit.

“I know you… saved my life.”

You paused, his soft voice halting you in your tracks.

“You didn’t have to. You could have just left me there, but… you didn’t.”

His speech was awkward but heartfelt. You glanced over your shoulder but he wasn’t staring at you; he was looking down at the blanket in his hands.

“I… appreciate what you’re doing. Trusting me. And… believing me. About HYDRA.” He paused and clenched the blankets tighter. “I’m not used to... all of _this.”_ He said it as if he meant more than the immediate situation. It felt like he was saying he wasn’t used to being treated as a person. As human.

Something churned within your stomach. A sensation.

Guilt. _Shame._ You had endured so much over the past few days and you weren’t sure when the full realization of everything was going to hit you. You knew when it did, it would be ugly.

You wanted to help him. But you didn’t even know how to help yourself. So you did what you always do in uncomfortable situations. You pushed it away.

“It’s nothing,” you responded flatly, turning back towards the bedroom so you wouldn’t look at him. “You saved my life. I saved yours. We’re even now.”

You tried to make it sound like it didn’t mean anything. It was just an exchanging of debts. A life for a life. And now he would help you stop HYDRA. He was a means to an end. That was all.

The effect was lost by the slight waver in your voice. You ducked your head and left the room, feeling his gaze on the back of your neck every step of the way.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader is confronted by unwanted truths, but she's not the only one who suffers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another large chapter, this one gets really sad and intense so I apologize for all the people who wanted that Bucky hug. I promise you won't have to wait much longer!
> 
> Chapter warnings: Brief body horror, discussions of sexual assault, victims of trauma coping in unhealthy ways, intrusive thoughts, psychological trauma (I'm not kidding when I say this chapter is a little intense so please take care)

Your first order of business was even more urgent than sleep or food: you desperately needed a hot shower.

When you locked yourself in the bathroom you realized you had forgotten to bring in the first aid kit. After the awkward, uncomfortable conversation you’d just had with the assassin, you decided to search the medicine cabinet instead of venturing back to the living room. Call it cowardice, but you were too exhausted to try and brave the sad look in his blue eyes.

Fortunately enough, you found some bandages in the cabinet that would work for what you needed. You thankfully had brought in a new change of clothing, pilfered from the chest of drawers in the bedroom. Grey sweatpants, a white t-shirt, a pair of white socks, and white cotton underwear. Boring but utilitarian. It was the closest thing you could find to sleepwear, and it was definitely warmer than the rags had been wearing.

Your old clothing was so soiled with sweat and blood you didn’t think it would ever come out. That was fine with you—you’d never be able to look at those items of clothing again without remembering.

Better to burn it all.

You stepped into the shower with a sigh of relief as the warm water hit your back, loosening your tight shoulders enough to wash away the grime and dirt. You spent at least fifteen minutes under the water, pinking from scrubbing so roughly in the scalding water. There were dried specks of blood in your hair and on your arms, and you weren’t sure who it belonged to. The guards you had assaulted, Mr. Kartal, or you.

Probably all of the above.

Your wound looked better, better than you would have imagined it’d look after so little time, and it was still sealed with the surgical glue. Unfortunately, the ugly, mottled bruises covering your body were just beginning to bloom. You were lucky the men who had assaulted you hadn’t broken any bones or ruptured any organs.

_Lucky._ Right.

You felt like a different person after getting out and toweling off, sweet-smelling steam following you out of the shower. You weren’t as glum about your chances of survival. You didn’t know what was going to happen in a few hours when you arrived back at HQ, but you felt better equipped to handle it now.

You replaced the bandage on your arm, satisfied that you had enough mobility with it, stretching your shoulder in as wide a motion as you could. You pulled on your new clothes and winced when some of your hair got caught in the hoodie zipper. You freed the strands of hair, but a sharp pain tugged at your scalp as you did so.

Frowning, you leaned forward and looked more closely in the bathroom mirror, rubbing at the sore spot. A lock of hair came loose and completely separated from your scalp.

You stared at it in horror, fixated on the bits of skin that stuck to the roots. Looking up again, you turned your head and parted your hair to find circular burn marks on your scalp.

Numbly, you moved your fingers further along your head, and when you felt a sharp jab of pain, you parted your hair again and found another circular burn. You kept going, and found another, and another—

You turned to the toilet, yanked open the lid, and vomited. Not much came up as you hadn’t eaten in hours, but the stomach acid burned your throat and tasted vile in your mouth.

You coughed and gagged, trying to be silent. The last thing you wanted was for the assassin to hear you. You didn’t want anyone to see you right now. A moment of weakness was an understatement. You felt absolutely helpless. _Violated._

Once the nausea passed, you flushed the toilet and turned on the sink, filling your cupped palms and rinsing the foul taste out of your mouth. Then you drank to satiate the burn in your throat, followed by a few splashes to your heated face.

The next time you looked in the mirror, it was painful to see your newfound confidence had vanished. Your face had an unhealthy sheen and your eyes seemed too hollow. But at least you couldn’t see the evidence of your torture beneath your hair. No one would know about the electrical burns the machine had made as you’d screamed.

Swallowing down the horror, you opened the bathroom door and shut off the light. Your next stop would help you regain the steadiness you had lost.

There was a cache of weapons in a hidden cabinet in the back room, which you had chosen not to show the assassin, in which you reloaded your stolen HK45. Satisfied, you went back to the bedroom and crawled into the full-sized bed, setting the gun under your pillow before pulling up the covers.

It made you feel marginally better, even if didn’t know who your real enemies were.

The assassin? It seemed that you were both on the same page at the moment, but you didn’t know him well enough to gauge how long that would last.

HYDRA? It was still hard to wrap your head around the fact they were still around, let alone a legitimate threat.

S.H.I.E.L.D.? The people you had dedicated your entire life to? It didn’t feel right. There _had_ to be an explanation. Surely _someone _would have noticed that the spy organization had been infiltrated by… well, spies.

You huffed out a sigh, staring up at the white painted ceiling. The moon was still out, shining through the leaves of the oak outside to paint a disturbing tapestry across the wall.

Your body was beyond exhausted. Every joint and muscle throbbed with a dull ache. Your eyes itched so you closed them, hoping to drift off, but your mind wouldn’t stop turning in circles with the things you wanted to avoid thinking about. Or rather, a specific person you didn’t want to think about.

You had left the door to the hallway open. So far, you hadn’t heard any sound from your temporary roommate. You took it as a hopeful sign he hadn’t heard your breakdown in the bathroom.

You didn’t know what to do with him. The assassin. You couldn’t think of him as _Bucky_. It was too familiar, too intimate. Bucky was the name of a person. And the assassin was… well. You didn’t know what the hell he was. Now that your roles had been almost entirely flipped, with him being vulnerable and you being in charge, you didn’t know how to square your mental assessment of him.

Despite your well-honed survival instincts and sense of self-preservation, you desperately wanted to trust him. Maybe it was because he had showed you a modicum of humanity in that dark hellhole. Maybe it was because he had saved your life, despite the fact you had told him you were squared on that front.

_Or maybe,_ a cruel voice in your head whispered, _you need to believe he’s good and trustworthy because you can’t stomach the thought that you let a mass murderer touch you, or even worse, that you enjoyed it._

Rolling onto your side, you braced your jaw as you shut your eyes tighter.

_No, no. You didn’t **let **him do anything, did you? You **encouraged **it. You **wanted** it. Even now, you’re imagining it. Crave his tongue licking the sweat off your skin. You can practically **feel **his fingers gripping your thighs and—_

You hissed between your teeth, a quiet _fuck off_ to the mean side of you that sounded an awful lot like Rumlow. God, if only _he_ knew what you had done. The way he would look at you. As if you were some piece of shit he had stepped in, caught at the bottom of his boot.

You’d deserve it, too. The kind of weakness you had shown in that place was inexcusable. No one else on your team would have succumbed that way. Some of the other guys would whisper behind your back that you weren’t cut out for STRIKE. Lawson had been the loudest of them, insinuating you were too emotional, but you’d always checked him off as a knuckle-dragging shitbag.

Maybe he had been right.

You sighed and rolled onto your back; you tried to breathe slowly and deeply, practicing the mental exercises Rumlow had taught you that would calm the frantic thoughts in your head. You had often had trouble with those, but your S.O. had always been there to instruct and guide you. You wished he was here now, even as you suspected he would treat the assassin with hostility and suspicion.

The exercises must have worked, because you woke sometime later not remembering having fallen asleep. The clock on the nightstand showed only an hour had passed. You almost groaned aloud in frustration.

You didn’t know what had awakened you until you heard the moan from the living room.

You sat up fast, straining your ears in concentration, and heard another low noise, this one filled with fear. You grabbed the gun from under your pillow and dashed out of bed, quickly padding forward on the balls of your socked feet.

You crept toward the living room, the barrel of the gun aimed toward the floor. You heard a voice.

_“Stop…”_

It was the assassin. And the word he spoke, so quiet but filled with terror, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You put your back to the hallway wall and peeked out into the living room, eyes wide and adrenaline pumping as you searched the dim space for intruders.

But the assassin was alone. You could see his dark shape on the couch, tossing and turning as he made small noises of distress. Huffs of breath, strained and uneven, punctuated by grunts and moans.

You realized he was having a nightmare.

_“Please,”_ he pled aloud, his voice croaking painfully. _“Don’t.”_

You released a small breath and flicked on the safety before putting the gun down on the nearby side table. You wouldn’t need it; bringing a weapon into this situation would only make things worse.

“Hey,” you said in a low, calming voice. “You’re dreaming. Wake up.”

You could see him more clearly now, your eyes having had adjusted to the moonlight from the curtained windows. His face was tense, his eyes shut down as he arched his neck while curling his fingers into the couch cushions.

He looked as if he was in real physical pain.

“Wake _up,”_ you tried again, raising your voice a little more.

He didn’t seem to hear you, but he did grit his teeth and made a noise that sounded between a strangled scream and a cry of agony.

Your heart stuttered in your chest, racing with memories you didn’t want to remember, echoes of your own tortured screams. Your eyes began to burn and your vision slightly blurred. You blinked it back to clearness.

When he gave another whine of pain, this one louder, you almost lurched forward to shake his shoulder. Only your training and experience held you back. There had been members of your team who were military vets. Nightmares like this were not uncommon, and the one thing you didn’t do with an ex-soldier crying out in their sleep was grab them.

But he wasn’t waking up and he wasn’t responding to your calls. He made another noise, but this time he didn’t moan.

He _screamed._

The living room vanished. The sterile smell of alcohol filled your nostrils, white lights burned your eyes, and cold metal clamped down on your arms and ankles. You shut your eyes tight and reopened them to see him, the man who had saved you, trapped in his own personal Hell he couldn’t wake up from.

You couldn’t watch his torment a moment longer. You cried out his name.

_“Bucky!”_

A metallic flash in the dark, a sharp whirring noise, and then a loud_ crash_ as his metal arm went through the coffee table, shattering it in two.

You clapped your hand over your mouth. You quivered but remained silent as you stared at him.

The assassin sat up quickly, panting, staring down at the destruction he had wrought, his eyes wide. And then he looked up at you and his breath hitched in his throat.

“I…” His voice cracked, and he tried again. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head in silence, not trusting your voice to speak, not trusting yourself to know what would come out.

His expression fell as he studied your face.

“I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to…”

You again shook your head, this time finding your voice.

“It’s—it’s okay.”

He blinked, confusing flooding his features.

“No, it’s not,” he asserted, his voice soft but riddled with guilt. “I said… you could trust me. I said I wouldn’t try to hurt you. I didn’t mean to scare you—“

“It’s not you I’m afraid of,” you responded quietly, thinking about the room you had been transported to for just a moment.

His brows furrowed at that statement, and he looked even more confused than before. But instead of clarifying what you meant, you went to the wall and flicked the switch.

The assassin blinked and squinted at the sudden influx of light. You assessed what was left of the coffee table. The wood was split in two straight down the middle, and the glass had been shattered into a hundred different pieces.

He followed your eye line and looked absolutely miserable at the damage he had caused.

You couldn’t stand to see that look on his face.

“At least it’s on the rug,” you said, lowering your hands to hug your middle as you surveyed the remains. “Shouldn’t be too difficult to clean up. I can roll it up and toss it out the back.”

He said nothing for a moment, as if processing your words. And then he gazed up at you, his expression so baffled it was almost endearing.

_How did I ever think this man was Death personified? _you thought sheepishly. Even though it had only been a couple of days ago, it was hard to remember the existential dread that had filled you at the mere sight of him. Now when you looked at him, you experienced a confusing mixture of anxiety, inappropriate thoughts, and a disconcerting almost-fondness.

_Fun._

“It’s just a table,” you said with a casual shrug. “Wood and glass.”

Believing that was explanation enough, you left the living room and went to the back entrance. You entered the security pin and opened the door, shivering at the blast of freezing winter air. You blinked when you realized it had started snowing, so recently that it had barely dusted the ground.

You tilted your head back and breathed in after shutting your eyes, letting the serene softness of the quiet night leach some of the tension from your muscles. You had always loved the winter.

When you returned, you found assassin was trying to lift himself off the couch.

“Nope. Sit back down before you tear open all my hard work.”

He actually looked chagrined at the sound of your voice and seated himself back on the cushions. You had the sudden urge to smile, but you quickly suppressed the sensation.

It was sleep deprivation, you told yourself. A side effect of having multiple brushes with death. That’s all it was, this feeling of odd lightness.

You grabbed the edges of the rug and managed to drag the whole mess out of the living room, through the kitchen, and out the back door. You hadn’t even put shoes over your socks, wearing nothing more protective than sweatpants and a sweater jacket. You hurriedly dumped the rug and broken table near the garden shed and hurried back into the house, quickly shutting the door and arming the alarm system.

You glanced back at the couch and didn’t see the assassin, your heart skipping a beat in sudden panic, but then you caught sight of him coming from the supply closet carrying a dustpan and brush. Relief flooded your system, quickly followed by consternation that he was up and about.

“I know,” he said with a sheepish wince as he walked back to the living room, anticipating your impending scolding. “But it’s my fault.”

You intercepted him before he could get any closer, plucking the pan and brush from his hands. He blinked down at your face.

“I don’t want to pick the shards of glass out of your feet on top of digging bullets out of your side. Yeah?”

Your words were firm but your voice wasn’t. It was impossible to be angry at him when he was staring at you with those goddamn eyes of his. They seemed even more doe-y and bluer than usual, and _Jesus_, when had they gotten so soft?

“Just… go wait in the kitchen,” you muttered, annoyed at the heat creeping up your creeks.

He nodded without speaking, his lips pressed together as he studied your face before turning away.

You set about cleaning up the larger shards of glass, and once that was done, you finished it up with a quick vacuum. Luckily the house was stocked with most of the things a real house would have, and fifteen minutes later, everything looked in order.

After you put away the vacuum and returned to the living room, you realized your stolen handgun was still sitting on the side table in full view. The assassin hadn’t taken it, not that he needed it if he wanted to kill you, but still. It was dangerously sloppy on your part and you silently berated yourself.

_If I survive the impending HYDRA catastrophe, they are so court-martialing my ass—_

Your self-flagellation came to a halt when a warm, soothing scent hit you. Chocolatey and smooth.

You looked toward the kitchen and blinked. The assassin was pouring steaming water into two mugs, and by the smell of it, he was making…

_…hot cocoa?_

You didn’t know what was more shocking. The fact this man had been a stone-cold killer hours ago, and now looked shockingly at home standing there in the kitchen, shirtless and muscled and—

_Fucking quit it_.

Still… With the overhead oven lights shining down on his soft brown hair, causing ripples of shadows across his incredibly toned body, you had to admit he looked like something out of a cheesy airport romance novel.

To make things worse, domesticity seemed to fit him like a goddamn glove.

“Um…”

He glanced up at the sound of your voice, his eyes curious behind the curtains of his hair.

You had no idea what to say. It was like the sight of something so surreal had robbed you of your common sense and senses.

He seemed abruptly self-conscience as he looked back down at what he was doing. He searched the drawers until he found two spoons and put them into the steaming mugs. He took one and carefully placed it on the island counter, keeping his distance from you.

“You haven’t eaten, so I thought…” He shook his head, and you could see the muscles tensing in his back under his smooth skin. “I don’t know. The cold air. I could smell snow. It reminded me of… making hot cocoa?”

He sounded unsure and a little bit lost. You didn’t know what to say, so you sat down at one of the stools and took the hot mug he had placed in front of you. The ceramic was warm against your palms, soothing and familiar. It reminded you of your own childhood. The parts of it that weren’t terrible, anyway.

“So... you’re beginning to remember things?” you asked, trying to be conversational. How one went about making small talk with an amnesiac assassin was going to be a learning experience.

When he didn’t respond, you glanced up at him. His blue eyes were focused on the countertop and he chewed his lip in thought. Your eye line automatically focused on the movement.

You hurriedly raised the mug to your lips and nearly burned yourself on the hot liquid.

“I… maybe,” he offered, his tone uncertain. “It’s still unclear. But I know this—this feeling can’t be from _them_. It has to be something real. Something from my own memories. Right?”

He flicked his gaze up to you, his eyes open and questioning.

You wanted to say, _I wish I could tell you._

You wanted to say, _I’m sorry._

You didn’t say either of those things.

“Yeah.” You sounded confident, almost optimistic. “It came from you. Not them.”

Was it a lie if you didn’t know the truth? Something told you that such an abstract act of personhood couldn’t have been something they gave him. No, it was more likely this was him taking something back. At least, you hoped it was. Either way, when you saw some of the heaviness lift from his shoulders, you knew it was a lie worth telling.

You stared at his bandaged side, his metal arm tucked around the curve of his ribs. He must have gone to the bathroom and cleaned off the remaining blood while you slept. You couldn’t even remember hearing the water running, an indication of how desperately exhausted you were.

“How are you even standing after taking four bullets?” you asked, suddenly curious.

The assassin blinked, looked down, and gave a one-arm shrug, causing the metal of his silver arm to glint in the light.

“I recover quickly.”

_So, definitely enhanced,_ you thought as you appraised him. It was possible he had been gifted before HYDRA got ahold of him, but you had a gut feeling they had done all of_ this_ to him.

Especially that arm. He certainly hadn’t done that to himself.

You reassessed your current situation as you drank the offered hot cocoa. You wished you had a way of contacting Captain Rogers. Or better yet, Agent Romanoff. She would have the connections and the tools necessary to stop a HYDRA takeover.

Or a mass-assassination. Whatever it was they were planning. You still weren’t sure on the details of how they had managed to build and hide three Helicarriers at the Triskelion with no one knowing.

Most of all, you wanted to contact your S.O. You knew you could do it right now if you wanted. The house had a secure landline hidden with the security monitors that were fed by the parameter cameras. But the assassin’s words hung over your head like a black cloud. If S.H.I.E.L.D. was compromised, then your team had been exposed and you didn’t know whom to trust. You didn’t know who else would be listening if you got into contact with Rumlow, either.

“Why are you being so kind to me?”

You looked up, startled. He was giving you that intent blue stare again, the one that seemed to bore right through you. Gone were the soft lines of his eyes and the relaxed curve of his lips.

“I’m sorry?” you asked, trying to keep your voice even, gripping your mug tighter.

“After what I did to you.”

Your heartbeat picked up, goosebumps chilling your arms.

“You saved my life,” you answered evenly.

He narrowed his eyes. You felt absolutely pinned to the spot.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Yes, you did know, but you had no idea how to respond, so you remained silent.

After a moment, his hard glare transformed into something that was harder to look at. You’d prefer him glowering at you than seeing the expression on his face now.

“I hurt you.”

There it was. The guilt in his eyes, woven into his words.

“You didn’t hurt me,” you denied, stubborn. It was almost unnatural how quickly you turned on your defenses, deflecting the things you didn’t want to confront. “I mean, okay, you did shoot me. And you put me in a chokehold until I blacked out. But…”

The words stuck in your throat. You couldn’t say it.

He pressed his lips together, his eyes too reflective, and his next words were so strained he sounded at his breaking point.

“I forced myself on you—”

“No.”

Your response was immediate and without question. He blinked, his brows furrowing in a look of confusion.

“No?”

“That’s right,” you said. “No. You didn’t”

Somehow, he looked more distressed than before. He ran a hand through his hair, jaw tense and almost angry.

“How can you say that?”

“Like this: you didn’t force yourself on me.”

He scowled, the wrinkles around his nose giving him an almost wolfish look.

“I’m serious.”

“Yeah, so am I. Look,” you interrupted him as he opened his mouth to answer, “whatever… happened, between us, while confusing and… complicated. Whatever it was, you didn’t… _force _it.”

You took a breath, trying to steady your nerves and still your trembling fingers. The adrenaline coursing through your limbs made you feel nauseated and restless, and it was difficult to remain still on the stool. You reminded yourself you were fine. You weren’t in any danger. This conversation, while difficult, wasn’t going to hurt you.

He broke eye contact when you finally got the courage to look him in the face. The shame had not left his eyes, and if anything, it was now worse.

“Still, I’m… I’m sorry. For everything I’ve done.”

Something wrenched inside you. You could feel the corners of your eyes prickle, and you desperately willed the tears away. He shouldn’t have to apologize, not for something that wasn’t his fault. He wasn’t to blame, and yet he was the one here willing to take it.

“It was HYDRA,” you said with a slight shake of your head. “From what I’ve seen, I’m certain they erased your memories and manipulated you. You can’t be held responsible for anything that happened. You didn’t have control over your actions. You didn’t have a choice—”

“I didn’t have a _choice?”_

The crisp bite of his words shocked you into silence. A bitter half-smile you had never seen before sprang from his lips. Even his blue eyes, once they turned to meet yours, held a sharp edge to them.

“They didn’t make me go into your cell.”

You froze. Back rigid and your hands still as your muscles tensed involuntarily.

“They didn’t tell me to touch you.”

A cold shiver shot down your spine, and your heart began to beat at a distressed pace.

“To put my hands on you.”

It was becoming difficult to breathe. His eyes held you still, but at the same time transported you back into that place.

You suddenly wanted to cover your ears.

“No one gave me orders to use you. Because I _did_ use you.”

_No, _you silently denied. It wasn’t true. It wasn’t.

“Because with you I felt… _something._ I knew it was wrong.”

_Stop talking. Stop talking._

You wanted to squeeze your eyes shut. But you didn’t.

“And I kept coming back.” His voice was almost harsh and his eyes bored into yours, leaving you utterly exposed. “I was too selfish to make myself stop.”

_Please,_ you wanted to beg. To scream. But the word died in your throat.

“Do you understand?” he asked, voice slightly shaking as his tone became hard and demanding. He moved closer; your muscles tensed in response. “I _wanted_ to do those things to you.”

You could practically feel the body heat radiating off of him. His tone wasn’t icy now. It burned just as hot as he did.

“I remember _exactly _how it felt, how _you_ felt, and I—”

_“Stop it!”_

Mercifully, at the sound of your cry, he went silent.

He closed his mouth and stared as you tried to get the trembling under control. It wasn’t working. You needed to do something. Run away. Launch across the kitchen and punch him in the jaw. You didn’t know. You just knew you needed to exit this conversation _now._

You stood up so fast you nearly tripped on the stool. Turning away from him, you all by fled back to the living room.

You picked up your weapon from the side table. As soon as your fingers gripped the metal, you felt better. On more solid ground.

You were safe. Nothing could hurt you here. You were in control.

When you had sufficiently reined in your frantic breaths and stilled your trembling muscles, you turned back toward him. The assassin was eyeing you closely but there was something in his face you didn’t expect. A kind of… grim acceptance.

_He thinks I’m going to shoot him,_ you thought.

No, that didn’t feel quite right. You looked at him more carefully. His stance was tense but open. His shoulders were set and his arms were relaxed. He wasn’t preparing to move. He was… braced. Waiting.

_No,_ you realized with perfect clarity. _He **wants** me to shoot him._

You blanched as horror clenched your gut. You lowered the gun next to your leg where he couldn’t see it directly.

The assassin remained perfectly still, except for his eyes. They watched your hands before drifting upward to your face. His expression had returned to the immutable rigidity of stone.

The sick feeling in your gut only gained in intensity. You didn’t want to shoot him, you never had. You had just wanted to put some distance between you, and yes, you _had_ wanted to take back some of the control you had so clearly lost in the last few minutes. But did he really think you were going to aim the gun at him and pull the trigger?

_If you were an agent actually worth something, you would,_ the cruel voice returned.

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” you announced in his general direction as your eyes fastened somewhere else. Anywhere else that wasn’t him. “I’m going back to bed. You should too.”

Without waiting for a response, you left the living room, walked down the hallway as fast as you could, and firmly shut the bedroom door behind you.

There was a lock; you didn’t hesitate to use it. Immediately you felt hysterical laughter trying to escape your throat.

A lock. A fucking _bedroom door lock_. As if that could do a goddamn thing. As if that could stop him in the least if he really wanted to get in.

You got into bed and sat up against the pillows, the gun next to you on the covers, well within reach.

But he didn’t try to bash down the door. He didn’t even approach it, as far as you knew. The house remained dead silent.

After ten minutes of hypervigilance, you slid down the covers and pulled them up to your chin. If he had wanted to carry out his plan of ending his life down the barrel of your gun, then he’d have done so by now. You were going to follow your own advice and get some desperately needed sleep.

Or at least, you tried, but you couldn’t stop replaying the disastrous scene in the kitchen. Every step of progress you made with the assassin ended up sending you two steps backward. How were you ever going to reach through to him when you were so irreparably damaged yourself?

You rolled onto your side and curled your limbs into a tight ball, grateful there was no one to witness your aching loneliness.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finally breaks down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short and sweet chapter for the mid-week, and I should have a larger update for the weekend. For now, have a little bit of Bucky tenderness.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Coping from trauma

You awoke with a cry.

That was all you got. A single cry. A blazing muscle spasm ripped through your body and clenched your chest so tightly you couldn’t breathe, stealing your voice.

You scrabbled at the covers, pushing your head back into the pillow as another shockwave hit your spine. To say it hurt was laughable. It was beyond agony. It was a full-body muscle cramp combined with the feeling of being struck by lightning.

You clenched your teeth to try to breathe, but your chest was frozen and your lungs remained resolutely still.

Somewhere in the distance you heard the doorknob rattle followed by a loud pounding.

You looked out of the corner of your peripheral vision just in time to see the door slam open. Bits of wood split from the frame, but the assassin didn’t slow until he reached your bedside. He leaned over you, his pale blue eyes almost luminescent in the moonlight from the window, his brows dark and furious.

You choked out a noise of fear, staring up at him as panic slammed into your chest and made your heart thunder like a galloping racehorse.

_“Breathe.”_

His touch was surprisingly gentle as he tipped back your head, holding his palms to either side of your jaw. You couldn’t see him at this angle, but you couldn’t see much of anything. Your vision was beginning to fade.

“Relax. Breathe. It’ll pass.”

He said it as if he spoke from experience.

You closed your eyes.

“No. Look at me.”

His voice sounded flat. Distant. Like you were hearing him over a very bad telephone connection.

“Look at me, Agent Williams.”

It was the first time he had addressed you by name or referred to you by your title. You wondered if it was an auditory hallucination. The byproduct of a dying brain.

“_Please_ open your eyes.” His voice was taut like a wire. He sounded afraid.

The tight band around your chest came loose, and you took a deep, shuddering breath.

_In, and out. In, and out._

The muscles were loosening just enough for you to manage to pull your eyes open, so you did so, fighting to focus as shapes blurred before you. When they became clear, you couldn’t look away.

The assassin was standing further along the bed so he could see your face. He was so close you could feel his warm breath on your skin, see the startling worry in his eyes.

_Why?_ you wondered faintly. _Why?_

“That’s it,” he said, so softly it was almost a whisper. His thumb brushed across the curve of your cheekbone. “Just look at me. And breathe.”

Your eyelids fluttered. It was hard to focus on him. Not from the cramping or pain—those things were beginning to ease—but because his hands were so warm, and solid, and comforting. It made you want to remain still, your head resting in his palm.

You had done that before, you recalled. The memory had an almost surreal quality now, tattered and fuzzy at the edges, but you remembered. He had helped you through the muscle spasms in your cell, even going so far as to have stayed with you after you’d fallen asleep.

“Don’t go,” you croaked out, panicked, suddenly afraid he would leave. _“Don’t leave—“_

You never heard his response; another spasm hit you, causing you to arch your spine as the muscles in your back went rigid. Your arms were pinioned at your sides by the force of your constrained muscles, and your heels dug into the mattress as the back of your head pressed into the pillow.

A solid arm moved under your shoulder blades, then your knees, and you sensed being briefly lifted from the bed only to be set down again. You were pulled towards a warm embrace. Heat seemed to flow throughout your body, returning feeling to your frozen limbs.

The warmth was exactly what you needed; your muscles began to uncoil. It happened slowly, tortuously as the sharp pain still seeped into your limbs, but it was better than it had been seconds ago. You exhaled in relief when the last of the painful tightness loosened and you could breathe normally again.

With the convulsion no longer overwhelming you, you were becoming increasingly aware of something warm and solid wrapped around your shoulders. You opened your eyes to find your nose nuzzled into the fabric of a black hoodie, the familiar yellow STRIKE symbol emblazoned on the left side. Right above his heart.

You tried to move out of the circle of his arms, but he tightened them and said, “Wait.”

_Wait?_ You weren’t going to wait, not when he was holding you so close to him, on the bed, practically cuddling you while—

The breath was knocked out of you as the first tremor hit. You had forgotten about the aftershocks.

Your lungs weren’t _vice-tight_ anymore, which helped if you wanted to breathe, bad if you wanted to remain silent. The noises that escaped your lips were small, pathetic, the noises a wounded animal would make. The tremors that coursed through your body were much more than simply physical. Your mind was barely hanging on, and you were on the verge of just fucking _losing it._

You wanted it to end. The pain. The fear. The constant feeling that you would never be truly safe again. You may have escaped from the cell, and the doctors, and the white room, but you still carried the horror of that place deep in your bones.

No matter how hard you trembled, the assassin kept his arms tight around you, as if he alone could hold you in one piece. You held on to him in turn, focusing on his breathing, his scent, the feel of his hands, anchoring you to keep you from surrendering to despair.

“What did they do to me?” you asked in a small voice.

“Nothing that won’t heal,” was his only answer, said into your hair as he pressed his lips against your crown. “I promise.”

The gesture sent a tingling sensation through your chest. You curled your fists into the soft material of the hoodie, vaguely wondering where he had found it. In a drawer, somewhere, probably.

It should have comforted you, seeing the symbol that had once represented your life, but the sight of it, the brazen yellow eagle on black bordered by valiant stars, made something crack within you. It spread like a spider’s web, splintering and crumbling throughout your heart until it finally burst like an ill-maintained dam.

You began to cry.

Everything you had suffered through, endured, and survived, came pouring out. Tears slid down your cheeks as your body racked with silent sobs.

A hand moved to the back of your head and his fingers laced through your hair. It was soothing, safe, and gave you silent permission to finally grieve.

You cried for your teammates, reciting their names in your heart. You cried for the people in S.H.I.E.L.D., the innocent who would be hurt by the rot within when it festered fully. It was more than just a job; they had been your family and S.H.I.E.L.D. had been your home.

You cried for yourself. You cried for _him_.

You clung to the former assassin, burying your face into his chest, and he pulled you in tighter. At this point, you were practically lying on his normal arm, the fingers curling through your hair were metal ones. The sight of that gleaming silver had terrified you once. It had signified blood and impending death, now it was your solace and your only source of comfort.

With a last gasp of breath, the tears finally stopped flowing and you no longer shook like a leaf. He continued to softly caress your hair and you didn’t move away from the circle of his arms. This was the safest you had felt since the convoy attack and your SUV had gone skidding off the road.

He had done that. He had put you in a position where you had been robbed of your freedom and dignity, but despite his protests, you knew he was just as much a casualty of this hidden war as you were.

You were only just beginning to understand what had been done to him. Who had been there to comfort him when he had suffered through the torture and misery?

No one. He had endured it alone, and you would have been forced to do the same, if not for him.

As close to him as you were, you pulled closer still, burying your head against his collarbone. His breath hitched but he didn’t push you away; he rested his chin on the top of your head, further tucking your face against his neck.

You inhaled his scent, a strange spice of faint sweat and gunpowder residue. Comforting and familiar smells in your line of work, but on him, they were alluring and inviting.

Closing your eyes, exhausted beyond your ability to resist, you let the tide take you to safe and distant shores.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finds her safe haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the late update! This is probably the most difficult chapter I've ever written, and on top of that, my beta reader's edits were all erased because google docs is just like that sometimes. There were many tears, at least from my end. Big shout out to [IAmPietroMaximoff](https://iampietromaximoff.tumblr.com/) for coming through for me in the biggest way imaginable. This chapter is only as fleshed out as it is because of her.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy, and without further ado, the chapter we've all been waiting for: hugs, kisses, and Bucky losing his second virginity.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Smut (a little rough?? definitely intense)

Something pulled you from the heaviness of sleep. A feather-light sensation on your nape, and a tickling on the tip of your nose. Solid arms wrapped around you.

You tensed at this last sensation, unfamiliar and alarming, but relaxed just as quick when you remembered who they belonged to. You opened your eyes to find yourself inches from the assassin’s chest.

The room was still dark; darker than before, and you realized the moon was setting. It still didn’t answer the question of what else had pulled you from sleep, so you concentrated on it. It was soothing and warm and felt suspiciously like fingers gently moving through your hair.

“Sorry,” he whispered softly. He must have realized you were awake. “You… fell asleep.”

“’s okay,” you mumbled groggily. You tried not to squirm as your cheeks began to grow hot. This was definitely the weirdest situation you’d ever woken up in, but you couldn’t say it didn’t feel _nice._

He didn’t say anything after that, not that you had any clue what to say either. Maybe you should have been ashamed of your earlier breakdown, but you felt surprisingly lighter. Less burdened; as if maybe things would turn out okay after all.

You pulled away just far enough to look up at him only to meet his gaze, heavy and arresting. His eyes were dark stars in the dim light cast by the blue glow of the bedside clock. His metal hand moved from your hair down to the side of your face, and he brushed away a stray lock of hair from the ridge your cheek with his thumb. The metal was unusually warm; you realized it was from your own body heat.

You couldn’t stop staring at him. You’d known he was attractive, even handsome, but now with the softness of his eyes and a tiny forming pout, he looked devastatingly beautiful.

You wanted to run your thumb across his bottom lip. You wanted to run your fingers down the rough stubble on his face.

You wanted to give him the relief and comfort he so often seemed to deny himself but had freely given you.

He abruptly broke eye contact.

“I’m going to go,” he said, voice low and rough. “You’re past the worst of it, and you need more sleep—“

“You should stay.”

The words came before you could stop them, your whisper barely heard but still he froze, startled. He studied your face, and you fought not to squirm at the intense scrutiny.

“It’s just, there’s room enough on the bed, more than on that crappy couch. There’s no reason you shouldn’t stay. You can sleep here. If you want, I mean.” It all came out in a rush that had you almost blanching. You hadn’t meant to come off so eager, you just wanted him to know after what had happened in the kitchen you weren’t mad or even scared of him.

He searched your face even more intently. You were sure he was going to decline and make a hasty retreat. After all, that’s what you would have done.

“Okay.”

You blinked.

“Uh.”

_Shit._

“Great,” you said, silently floundering. “That’s… good.”

You could have slapped yourself, but instead, you settled back down and made to go back to sleep.

It wasn’t working. After ten minutes of lying there, it was pretty clear that neither of you were falling asleep. You could hear it in his breathing, the fact he was just as alert as you were. According to the nightstand clock you had six hours until the Helicarrier launch. You desperately needed more sleep.

If only you could stop counting off all the points of contact between your bodies in your head. Your shin under his ankle, his knee against your thigh, his normal arm wedged under you as his metal one rested around your shoulders, fingers lightly touching your hair.

Most distracting of all, was the way he radiated body heat like a personal space heater. It was the middle of January, probably still snowing outside, and you didn’t even feel the need to cover yourself with the duvet.

There was an odd tension in the air, as if you were waiting for something. You weren’t exactly sure what it was until he moved. All he did was flex his metal fingers into the strands of your hair, but it was enough to send an electric shiver down your spine.

At your reaction he stilled his movement, reminding you of the way he had been in the cell: exploratory but hesitant and timid.

You took a steadying breath and shifted closer, relaxing your hold on the front of the hoodie and pressed your palm against his chest, feeling the taut muscles underneath. A shudder moved through him, his breathing already quicker.

Your pulse jumped as his metal fingers began to trail down the curve of your side, so light it almost tickled. You wondered just how sensitive they were; to move so delicately across your goose-pimpled skin.

He slipped his leg between yours, intertwining them as he rested his metal hand on your hip. He lowered his face towards yours and for a moment you thought he would kiss you. Instead, he pressed his forehead against yours until you were breathing the same air.

It was so ridiculously intimate you thought you might combust on the spot, his glazed gaze heady and ravenous. You didn’t think you’d ever been with someone so sensual. Someone who took their time exploring you, to savor you, and you had to restrain yourself from senseless reciprocation.

He didn’t make it easy for you; he traced his metal fingers around the hem of your jacket before cautiously dipping them under the fabric. Until that point you hadn’t realized how desperate for his touch you were, but that was clearly the case, when a few light caresses were enough to make you fidget and flush.

When his metal fingers slipped below the waistband of your sweatpants, you reached down to stop him. He stilled immediately, pulling back, eyes snapping to you, his expression open in worry.

You didn’t know how to put it into words that you didn’t want it to be like before. You didn’t want him to pleasure you while he remained untouched and untouchable. Why he had done it before, out of fear or guilt or something else, you didn’t know, but you were no longer prisoners.

It was different now. It_ had_ to be different now.

You weren’t one for fancy speeches, and the emotions inside you were too large to put into words anyway, so you did what you did best and spoke with actions.

You gently guided his metal hand to the small of your back, and holding it there, you leaned forward and pressed your lips to his.

It was so light it was barely more than a brush, but still he froze. His fingers twitched against your back and curled defensively.

You pulled away but remained close, releasing his metal wrist and sliding your hand back up his chest. His heart was hammering at a frantic pace.

“Do you want me to stop?” you asked quietly.

_“No.”_

He let out a huff of air, as if frustrated or embarrassed.

“No,” he repeated softly. “I don’t want you to stop. I just…”

He took a breath, his eyes slowly roving over your face before settling on your lips.

“I don’t know how to—” Another small noise of agitation. “I don’t remember what it’s like to be… close to someone.”

A hollow ache panged your chest. You couldn’t relate to having your memories taken away, but you understood barriers. You didn’t let people in very often, and when you did, it was like starting all over again. You had to retrace your steps back to knowing how to be that person again, open and trusting.

“It’ll come back to you,” you said, chewing on your lip in sympathy and nerves. “It’s like… riding a bike.”

The corner of his mouth twitched. So, he_ did_ have a sense of humor buried down there somewhere.

You leaned forward again, hesitating before meeting his lips. You searched his eyes for signs of uncertainty, but only found a soft but vivid yearning. It drove you to close the space between you.

Your mouth pressed against his, solid and firm, hoping to provoke a natural reaction rather than have him overthink what to do next. It seemed to work; his metal hand uncurled and his palm pressed flat against your back, pushing you against him as he parted his lips.

A thrill shot through you at the invitation and you prodded the tip of your tongue against his lips, tasting him. A low moan from the back of his throat sparked the fire between your thighs, burning hotter when he took the initiative and drew your tongue between his lips, sucking on it.

You felt his leg move further in-between yours, and you nearly moaned into the kiss when his metal hand moved down to lightly grab your ass. You _did _moan when he brought his leg high enough to press against your pelvis, rubbing his thigh against the center between your thighs.

Oh, yeah. He was definitely starting to remember.

He proved the point by rolling his hips and pressing his hard erection against your hip, making you gasp into his mouth, his faint smirk now a wicked answer. You lifted your leg higher, intending to grind your pelvis against him.

Instead, he gave a sharp pained grunt.

_“Shit!”_ You jerked back your leg, remembering too late that was the side where he was wounded. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—“

He smashed his lips against yours inelegantly, hard and aggressive, cutting you off as he pushed you onto your back and rolled on top of you. You parted your legs for him, the sweet sensations between your thighs heightened as his weight sank on top of you. Mindful of his injuries this time, you wrapped your left leg around his right hip.

You rolled your hips against his straining erection and the sound he made in his throat was deliciously needy. His kisses were relentless and just as insatiable as you remembered from your cell when he had pressed them between your legs.

You reached down between your chests to unzip your sweater jacket, pulling it off without ever breaking the kiss. His tongue was practically fucking your mouth, and you surrendered as he took charge, confidence found.

You pulled away only long enough to pull your shirt over your head. When you focused on his face again you could see his soft hair was a mess, his lips even more pink and kiss-swollen, and his eyes dark and wanting.

That hungry gaze drifted downward, tracing your neck and down your collarbone to your chest. He paused, his brows forming into a confused line before they creased into something much more severe.

You followed his eye line down and realized he was staring at the mottled bruises covering your ribcage. With everything else going on, you’d forgotten all about them.

“It’s fine.” You didn’t know not sure what else to say. “It doesn’t really hurt. Just aches.”

“I killed them.” His voice was low. Dangerous. “All of them.”

The hard steel in his eyes would have scared you, once.

_“Good.”_

He stared at you hard before bringing his lips down on yours, desperately and possessive. You moaned, overwhelmed and overtaken by his lack of restraint, and yet eagerly welcoming it.

His hand moved down to the side of your breast. The nipple was already perked but his fingers rubbed across the nub nonetheless, pulling a sharp moan at the jolt that came straight from your core.

He continued on, driving you to near madness as he slid his thumb across your sensitive skin.

Just when you were about to cave and beg him to stop teasing_, _he broke the kiss and lowered his head, drawing your hard nipple into his mouth.

Your hips jerked against him, a low groan in your throat as you arched backwards, further pushing your chest against his mouth. Your moans broke new volume when his silver fingers teased the other nipple with wicked sharp flicks and tweaks. The dual sensation was relentless and new, your hips bucking off the bed in a crude simile of what you wanted, what you needed.

He groaned low in his throat, almost a growl, and held you down on the mattress with his significant weight. You pushed back against him, not in resistance but in sheer, wanton need. Between his mouth and the metal fingers you knew you might very well come from that.

_“Jesus,”_ you panted out, curling into his hair and across the back of his neck. “You feel so good.”

He whined at your praise, flexing his hips and lighting another delicious spark of heat up your spine. He continued downward, his lips burning a trail of kisses across your stomach. When he reached the waistband of your sweatpants, he hooked his fingers around both them and your underwear and pulled them down, past your knees and ankles until you were entirely bare.

The shock of the cold air against your wet sex was nothing compared to when he parted your thighs and buried his face between your legs. Your moans were incoherent babblings as he latched onto your sensitive bud, sucking and tonguing you at the same time.

_“Mmph!”_ You gave a sharp moan, realizing how close you were to reaching your peak already. _“Wait,_ wait.”

He froze, face flushed and smeared indecently with your slick, he looked up at you with heavy-lidded, sex-drowned eyes.

It almost made you shove his head back between your legs; instead, you said, “Come here.”

He blinked but obeyed, crawling up your body he leaned his weight on his arms, one of his thighs pressed teasingly between yours. By the dark look in his eyes, you were pretty sure he knew full well what he was doing.

Tugging at the bottom of his hoodie with shivering fingers, he didn’t hesitate to lean back and pull it over his head. He wore nothing underneath, and your hands immediately pressed flat against his bare chest, marveling at the hard planes of his torso.

Your attention was drawn to the bright silver of his arm. You hadn’t realized it extended so far, encompassing his entire shoulder.

Your eyes wandered over the metal plates of his forearms and biceps, all the way to the jagged scar tissue across his chest. The metal caught the dim light from the digital readout of the alarm clock; it almost seemed softly aglow.

He flinched when your hand moved closer, his brows drawn together tight but his eyes wide with trepidation. Knowing how tender scar tissue could be even years after healing, you were gentle as you caressed the uneven, puckered skin.

He exhaled shakily but didn’t move to stop you. Your palm carefully traced down the plane where flesh met metal, your middle finger dancing the rough ground between the two.

You rose up on your elbows just high enough to press your lips softly against the scarred flesh.

His shoulders shuddered as his breath caught, chest seizing against yours. He gripped the covers on either side of you hard enough that you could hear the faint whirr of his arm. Parting your lips and kissing the marred skin with intention, you trailed upwards to the shoulder.

He pressed down harder against the bed, steadying himself before shuddering again as the tip of your tongue darted out to taste the part of him that had been most damaged. He dipped his head down into the crook of your neck, nearly biting as his teeth grazed against your skin almost menacingly. Not that you could fathom wanting anything less than everything he was willing to give you. You tilted your head back, inviting any and every instinct he had to come out and lash your skin with its intent. You wanted to feel it. You wanted to feel everything.

He seemed surprised by what he had done; he immediately froze against your neck.

“It’s okay,” you told him in a breathless whisper. “It’s okay.”

More carefully this time, he lowered his hands and flexed his fingers against your hips, drawing you tighter against him as he latched onto your neck with his mouth. His sucked and nipped at your sensitive skin, sending sparks up and down your spine.

As he dragged teeth and tongue and lips across your throat, marking and tasting as he pleased, you slid your hands down his sides to the waistband of his sweatpants. Judging by how wet you were and the way he was grinding against you, there was little doubt you had ruined them.

Remembering how he had reacted in your cell, you paid close attention as you slipped your hand downward. Your fingertips scraped along his warm skin, slow and intentional, eyes locked over his shoulder as he bruised you. When you finally wrapped your hand around him he gave a muted, shaky groan, making you smile. He pulled his lips away from your neck and panted against your skin.

You took a moment to just hold him in your hand, noting how the shaft was searing hot even when compared to the rest of his skin. He was thick and heavy, and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any noise. God, it had been a while for you, and from what you could tell of his size, you were pretty sure it was going to be a strain to take all of him.

“Are you sure… this is what you want?” he breathed into your ear. He sounded timid and unsure again despite his enthusiasm a moment ago.

“Very.” You squeezed his shaft and reveled in his shiver. “Are you?”

Instead of answering, he grabbed the waistband of his sweatpants and pulled them off entirely.

The feel of his body, the long expanse of bare skin against yours, was intoxicating. You squeezed your hand around his cock; he groaned and rutted his hips in response. His expression was tense however, as if he were barely holding himself back.

A thrill shot through your gut. You had known he was unnervingly strong and powerfully built, a fact that had terrified you once. The idea he held so much lethal force in his hands was making you tremble in a completely different way now.

You began to move your hand up and down his shaft, squeezing and loosening your grip with each tug. His eyes became half-lidded and hazy as he got caught up in the pleasure, and you felt your clit throb in response.

Finding your own restraint vanishing as the tension mounted, you angled your hips upward and removed your hand so the length of his shaft was pressed against your slick folds. The blissfulness in his eyes was replaced by a look of untamed wildness, a warning or a promise in their blue depths.

He gripped your hips tightly in his hands and ground his pelvis against yours, his shaft sliding hotly against your core. He was close to losing control; you wanted to tip him over the edge.

Both of your arms were curled around him, your fingertips digging into the taut muscles of his back and your left leg hooked around the dip of his waist on his uninjured side. You could feel the hard planes of his muscles against your chest and stomach, flexing and tight as he ground against your aching core.

_“Fuck,”_ you gasped as the tightening in your pelvis increased. You panted harshly, overwhelmed, on the edge and about to tip over, and you grit your teeth as you exclaimed, _“Oh, God, Bucky, I’m gonna—“_

Sparks flew in your vision and your breath was stolen as you arched your spine, the crescendo of your pleasure leaving you a writhing, whining mess.

Without warning, he growled against the side of your jaw, pulled back his hips, and plunged into you with one swift motion, burying himself up to the hilt.

You gave a strangled cry, your fingernails digging into his shoulder blades as the pain and pleasure mixed into one overwhelming sensation. You were so wet he was able to slide into you with ease, but he was still almost too much to take, heavy inside you, filling you so completely that you were stretched to the limit.

The flint in his eyes softened as he blinked, his expression confused followed quickly by shock. He began to pull out, a muted apology already on his lips.

“Don’t stop,” you practically begged him, your voice wrecked and in shambles. “God, _please_ don’t stop.”

He hesitated for a moment then slid forward, slower this time, until he bottomed out. He was panting, trembling even, and his muscles were hard and rigid.

“I’m f… fine. I won’t break,” you rasped, trying to catch your breath and remember how to speak.

At your words the hard edge of his brow smoothed out, but his body was still as taut as a wire. You raised your hand to the back of his neck and curled your fingers into his hair. He gave an audible moan against your throat.

You were adjusting to him at least, but now you were growing restless at the lack of friction against your clit and walls. You squirmed and his fingers tightened around your hips, stilling the movement.

You whined in frustration; being practically impaled on his dick while being unable to move was its own special kind of hot, but something about it reminded you of how he had been in the cell. Purposeful, focused, with absolute control.

Well, fuck _that._ You were going to make him move.

You latched yourself onto his neck and dug your heel into his lower back in a single movement. You nipped and grazed at his neck with your teeth at the same time you squeezed your leg, forcing him even further inside you.

Just to make sure you drove your point home, you clenched your walls around him.

You felt it the second his control broke; with a snarl he drew his hips back and snapped them forward, merciless and brutal. You cried out and held on as best you could as he did it again, and again, until he fell into a steady rhythm that was well on its way to undoing you.

You had told him you wouldn’t break, and maybe you’d spoken too soon on that front, but you didn’t care. The slide of his thick cock against your walls, stretching and pulling you until your mind was just one long note of pleasure.

He grabbed your thigh and pulled your leg higher, almost too far as he fucked you into the mattress with barely a pause. The new angle causing his shaft to rub along your clit while also reaching deeper than before, you were reduced to a panting, shivering mess.

He panted into the crook of your neck, and you realized only his flesh hand was holding your hip now; his metal arm was next to your head, and you saw the metal fingers digging into the covers, ripping the fabric into shreds.

The sight of him losing control sent tension blooming in your abdomen, and you felt your walls begin to constrict around his cock.

You meant to tell him you were about to come; instead, you arched your back and wailed his name.

The orgasm hit shockingly hard, reducing you to a mewling mess. Through the waves of heat ripping up your spine you felt his fingers dig into you as his relentless pace stuttered.

The muscle under your palms was as steeled as his silver arm, and the sound he made as his hips ground lewdly into yours was guttural and too loud. He groaned into your shoulder, shuddered violently, and snapped his hips once last time. His cock throbbed suddenly, echoing the pulsing of your walls as he released inside you. You felt the warmth of it low in your belly.

You laid there for a moment catching your breath, your mind drifting in a haze as your body buzzed pleasantly. From your fingertips, which had left deep scratches of red on his back, to the tips of your toes, which had curled to the point of pain during your peak.

He slowly lifted his weight off of your chest, leaning on his hands as he looked down at you. He was a mess, his hair unkempt and his lips parted and swollen. You thought you had never seen such a gorgeous sight in your life.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said in a croaky voice, his eyes flicking away from yours. “Not inside of you.”

“Well…” You gave a smile you knew was fucked-out and dopey. “I kinda liked it.”

His eyes met yours again, the blue in them barely seen against his dark pupils.

“Really?”

“Mmh,” you hummed. He still looked unsure, so you gently cradled his face in your palms and leaned up to press your lips to his. The effect was immediate; he relaxed the tension in his body and melted into you, parting his lips slightly so he could taste you on his tongue.

And then you felt something that should have been impossible; he was growing hard inside you. He broke the kiss with a sheepish expression.

“I, uh… it’s… sorry…”

“Oh, no, don’t apologize,” you said, biting your lip as you tried not to grin. It was an interesting development, one you _really_ wanted to explore. But…

Your smile faded.

“We should try and get some sleep before…”

You couldn’t continue past the lump forming in your throat. Reality was crashing down, intruding into the safe bubble you had created between you. Stolen moments, that’s what they were, and now you had to return to the real world. The realization stung like grief in your chest.

His eyes, sad and beautiful, softened as he leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, lingering until you were breathless and more than a little flustered. He carefully pulled out of you, leaving you feeling empty and cold as he got up from the bed.

He returned with a washcloth damp with warm water and gently cleaned you from the mess of your cum and his. He must have noticed the surprised look on your face, or maybe the flush on your cheeks, because he blushed and said, “It’s my fault… so…”

You found your voice had vanished. Being cleaned shouldn’t have been a big deal, but it was more aftercare than you had received from the other few partners you’d had.

He cleared his throat and straightened up, and it was obvious he was even harder than he had been before. He ducked his head and turned away. You were seriously considering the merits of skipping sleep and going for round two when he picked up his discarded sweatpants and slid them on.

When he handed you your articles of clothing, you frowned but took them. The blush on his cheeks was noticeable as he explained, “We need sleep, which… I guarantee won’t happen if you’re not wearing anything.”

It was now your turn to be flustered. The fact he thought you were so desirable was doing all sorts of things to your head, not to mention the flush on your cheeks and the tingling between your thighs.

_Oh, hell._

You pulled on your shirt and underwear, only belatedly recalling the last part of his statement as he slid into bed beside you.

He was staying with you.

You laid down beside him, marveling at the turn your night had taken. Relaxed and warm, muscles loose and skin still tingling from the best orgasm you’d ever had in your life, given by none other than the metal-armed former-assassin.

You waited for him to hold you as he had done before, but instead he remained almost stiff and awkward with his hands at his sides. You rolled your eyes and moved his normal arm out of the way, hugging your own arm across his chest and leaning your head on his shoulder.

He remained stiff for only a moment before slowly relaxing, wrapping his arm around your waist. He was slow to thaw, but you knew the effort was worth it.

There was a puff of air against your hair just before he pressed his lips into your crown. It took you by surprise and warmth bloomed in your chest at the unexpected affection.

You closed your eyes and tried to focus on his solid, comforting presence. You knew there was a decent chance you wouldn’t see tomorrow, but you couldn’t think of a better way to spend your remaining time.

With him, you had forgotten the aching muscles of your abused body and the hanging black cloud over your head.

With him, you weren’t a betrayed soldier fighting for a cause that might be nothing more than a lie. And with you, he wasn’t a victim of HYDRA, twisted into a living weapon.

You could be you. And he could be someone named Bucky.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, reader and Bucky have a discussion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DB has officially reached 5000 hits. I'm so happy and overwhelmed. Thank you everyone for your love and support, especially considering this is my first Bucky fic.
> 
> Next chapter we're going to be thrown back into some intense plot so let us savor the soft Buck while we can. I feel this is a good time to share with you my spotify playlist since it's all the songs that make me think of our sexy Marvel men (especially Bucky). [Enjoy](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0aKcnFjcWFMxf1cW4OHGrr?si=ne4yneFKRS-HkunKjK2rXw)
> 
> PS - In regards to the gif, imagine Bucky givin you that look toward the end of the chapter ;)
> 
> Chapter warnings: Smut

The sound of a quiet radio playing was the first thing you were aware of. You blinked your eyes open and… it took you a minute to realize what you were looking at. A painted bedroom wall, not your own. Something hard held your waist.

You looked down and saw silver metal looped around you, holding you securely to a solid weight against your back. Closing your eyes, you ran your fingertips across the warm metal, tracing along the plates and divots in the arm. The gentle music added to the soft morning backdrop. You didn’t want it to end.

Your cheeks heated as you remembered the night before. Even now you could feel the ghost of fingertips across your skin, a heaviness inside you. You recalled the feel of him throbbing hard, spilling hot inside you, and your face grew even warmer.

You hadn’t said so at the time, but there had been a reason why you hadn’t panicked from unprotected sex. You figured it didn’t matter since there was no guarantee you would live long enough for it to become a problem.

You sighed quietly; when your thoughts turned morbid, it was time to get out of bed.

Moving as carefully as you could, you rolled to your other side, and with his arm still around you, you reached over to turn off the alarm. Once done, you settled back down into the bed and looked at the man beside you.

His eyes were still closed, his long lashes lying against his cheeks, his breath slow and even. The fact the radio hadn’t disturbed him at all was evidence of how much he needed rest.

You did too. Your muscles were sore and your eyelids heavy, and you allowed yourself a few minutes more in this perfect pocket of time where nothing existed outside the bed.

You took the time to study his face, carefully committing it to memory.

His closed eyelids, his full, pouty lips, his stubble already growing in thicker. Your eyes trailed downward to his perfectly sculpted chest and abdomen, stopping at his sweatpants. You eyed the dressings on his left side and were glad to see they were still starch white. No blood had soaked through. He had survived your amateur surgery, just like he’d said he would.

Taking a chance, you leaned forward and placed a soft kiss on his forehead. He remained unmoved and unchanged, but when you went to scoot out from under his arm, his fingers curled around the hem of your shirt before finally letting go, his lips forming into a troubled pout.

Leaving that bed felt like the most difficult thing you’d ever done, but you did it, and went to the bureau to get dressed. You found black jeans that somewhat fit, a tight tank to fit under your shirt in lieu of not having a clean bra to wear. You paused when you reached for your sweater jacket, and instead grabbed the black STRIKE hoodie Bucky had worn earlier.

With a tiny smirk, you slipped it over your head. It held his scent, faint but unmistakable, a comforting mixture of masculine sweat and gunpowder. With one last look at Bucky’s sleeping form, you silently left the bedroom and went to the kitchen.

Seeing as there was nothing more than MREs, frozen dinners, and protein bars in stock, making breakfast wasn’t complicated or enticing. You fired up the microwave and started on the first frozen tray, eyeing it warily as you went to the coffee pot. Thank Christ the place had coffee beans and a machine, at least.

_Really gonna have to get Rumlow to upgrade this place once things are settled. _With HYDRA exposed, everything could go back to normal. Everything _would_ go back to normal, and you’d return to a life filled with early morning training sessions, boring meetings, and sometimes harrowing missions.

Suddenly it didn’t seem as fulfilling as you’d once thought it was.

_And what about him?_ _What about Bucky?_

The man must have had a talent for showing up when people thought about him, because you sensed a presence at your back almost immediately. You turned and saw him standing there, his soft hair ruffled and his expression a mixture of confusion and worry.

“Hey,” you said, trying to sound casual. Like this was a thing you both did every day. “Morning.”

He stared at you for a moment, as if he didn’t know what to do or say. You chewed your lip when you realized the sweater jacket he was wearing was a little too tight. It was the same one you were wearing the night before.

Your cheeks were going to catch on fire at this rate.

“You hungry?” you asked, desperate for something to fill the silence. “I’m making some, uh… not sure what it is.” You picked up the cardboard box and peered at it, “…turkey and gravy dinners?”

He blinked and finally seemed to snap out of whatever funk he was in.

“Sure,” he answered distractedly, as if he hadn’t heard you at all. “I… sorry,” he apologized, his expression oddly sheepish. “I woke up and… saw you were gone. I thought… you had left.”

You felt your expression soften as your heart did the same. At times, he could seem so vulnerable, almost bashful, and those were the moments you knew you were in a different kind of danger. Emotionally compromised didn’t come close to it, and that didn’t work with the lifestyle of a STRIKE agent.

You had no delusions about what would happen if the feds or S.H.I.E.L.D. got ahold of him. There was no way in hell you were going to let that happen.

Hence: emotionally compromised.

You cleared your throat and tried to put on your most reassuring smile. It felt rusty.

“Nope. Still here.” The smile faded a little, and you looked down at the countertop as his approach. “We need to discuss how we’re moving forward, though, and I’ve been thinking …”

“Yes?” he prompted you as he sat down on one of the kitchen island stools. When you looked up, his bright blue eyes were fixed on your face. There was genuine curiosity there, but also a shadow of something that looked like concern.

“Well,” you started out, flexing your fingers in front of you, “I figured with my clearance level, and the fact that no one knows_ I_ know about HYDRA, I can slip into HQ without raising any alarms. They’ll want a debriefing on the attack and my capture, so I’ll have to lay low, but I can contact Captain Rogers and tell him everything. He can come down to HQ and create enough of a distraction that I can get to him, and we can…”

You made a vague motion in the air.

“…stop the launch.”

It had sounded much better in your own head. The dubious look on Bucky’s face told you it didn’t quite stick the landing on retelling.

“It sounds like you’re leaving a lot to chance,” he responded slowly. He had a point, but his frown was much more severe than you thought was necessary or warranted.

“Uh…” You rubbed the back of your neck. “I mean, it’s not perfect, but it’s all I’ve got.”

He looked up at you, his brows still a severe line. “What about me?” he asked.

You breathed out slowly. He wasn’t going to like your answer.

“I… would prefer it if you stayed here.”

He opened his mouth and you interjected, “At this point, both HYDRA _and_ S.H.I.E.L.D. are after you. It’s too dangerous for you to come with me. Besides, you’re still injured,” you reminded him, a fact _you_ hadn’t forgotten. “The best course of action would be if you remained here and waited for us to stop the launch. You said you knew Rogers, correct?”

Bucky blinked, his blue eyes going unfocused for a moment, and then he looked back up at you and said, “Yes. I… think so. He was… on the train with me.”

You weren’t sure what train he was talking about, but it sounded hopeful.

“Okay, good. Knowing Rogers, he’ll want to help you, but he can’t help you if you’re dead, which means…” A pointed tap on the counter. “_You_ stay here.”

“I’m more stable than I was last night,” he said, his frown ever-growing. “I can fight. And…” he dropped his eyes down to his hands on the countertop. “…I need to—to _do_ something.”

You weren’t normally the touchy-feely type, but this was too much; you reached across the counter to wrap your fingers around his metal ones.

“I get it,” you spoke softly. “I do. And you will. We’re going to need your help in getting HYDRA out of S.H.I.E.L.D.”

His eyes met yours, wider and bluer than usual. His tone held a tinge of sadness to it when he said, “You believe S.H.I.E.L.D. can still be salvaged. It can’t.”

You drew your hand back, hurt. You knew you shouldn’t have been, and you brushed the stinging sensation away as you turned back to the microwave. You didn’t miss the flash of regret across his face.

“I’m still going to try,” you said while opening the microwave door and putting the other dinner tray inside. You closed the door, set the timer and hit the _on_ button, and composed yourself. When you turned back to him, you were all business again.

“Have you remembered anything else about HYDRA? Names or connections? High value locations? Anything that can give me an edge?” Your tone was a lot brusquer that you had intended, and your heart sank further as you watched his expression form a sort of blank mask. You knew that look.

“No. I wasn’t there to listen, or learn, or overhear important conversations. That wasn’t my purpose.”

It hurt to hear him talk about himself that way, but you didn’t know what to say to something like that. Worse than that was having to watch him retreat into himself again. Bucky curled his hands together as he held them in front of him on the counter. The food tray you had slid next to him remained untouched.

Your own food was done cooking, and you forced down what you could, knowing you needed the calories for the day ahead. It still tasted like a sad, lonely, cardboard dinner.

“You should eat,” you reminded him gently. “Especially while your body is repairing itself.”

He didn’t move toward the fork next to the trail, and his piercing eyes continued to stare at his hands—

No, not both of them. He was only staring at his mechanical one.

“I’ve done terrible things,” he said finally. “If you knew even a fraction of them, you wouldn’t even… even be able to look at me.”

He hunched his shoulders forward, as if the words pained him. The bite you had taken suddenly tasted like ashes in your mouth. So, he was remembering things after all. Just not about HYDRA.

You forced down the mouthful of food, put down your fork, and walked around the counter towards him. Bucky watched you out of the corner of his eye, the tension of his shoulders visible even under the jacket.

You stopped next to him said in an even tone, “Bucky…”

He shook his head.

“Don’t.” His voice was hoarse, trembling and unsteady. “Don’t make excuses for me. Please.”

“I’m not.”

His gaze flicked upwards, eyes wide as you bent forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, cradling his head against your shoulder as you buried your face in his hair.

After what felt like a long time, Bucky finally began to relax against you. He leaned his cheek against your bicep, almost nuzzling it. You could feel the hard cusp of his metal shoulder pressed into your chest.

A reminder of all he had done and all that had been done to him.

“What we do to survive,” you murmured, lips brushing against his soft hair, “it isn’t who we are.”

You felt him pull back slightly. When you loosened your arms and looked down into his face, you saw an undefinable sadness there. You didn’t know if it was for him… or for you.

Determined to wipe that expression away, you dipped your head down and pressed a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth.

His breath hitched but didn’t pull away. He barely seemed to breathe. You placed another kiss further along his cheek, light and exploratory, and then another closer to his jaw. His stubble scratched pleasantly against your lips.

When he turned his head slowly towards you, his lips hovering barely an inch away, you abandoned the last of your restraint. You pressed your mouth against his, breathing deeply through your nose as your heart thudded in your chest.

Powerful hands gripped you around the waist and pulled you closer, almost into his lap, but the stool was barely large enough for him, let alone the both of you. Without breaking the kiss, he grabbed you around the back of your thighs and lifted you onto the island counter.

When he parted his lips against your mouth, you drew him between your legs as he ran his hands down your back. Your fingers were twisted in his hair as you devoured his lips, his tongue, everything he offered you. He was too much, too deep, an ocean you would gladly drown in.

You hooked your legs behind his back, and at this angle you were nearly at eye level. It was a good height, you soon found out, as he pressed his straining erection against the bottom of your jeans just over your clothed entrance.

You moaned against his mouth, unabashedly. You knew you should stop, that you needed to leave soon, but he tasted and smelled and felt _so_ goddamn good. He was an addiction already, and you couldn’t get enough.

Bucky was quick to respond; he broke the kiss and pulled the hoodie up over your head, and then began to unbutton your jeans, his fingers borderline frantic as he tugged down the zipper.

Not to be outdone, you dipped your hand down the front of his sweatpants to find his cock hard and heavy. You squeezed with your hand and reveled in the strained moan he released into your ear, his hands clenching your hips as he started to tug down your pants. You removed your hand from around his cock and braced it against the counter to lift your ass, helping him slide off both your jeans and underwear in one quick motion.

Bucky’s hands were at your hips a second later and he pulled you to the very edge of the counter. You wrapped your legs around his waist, gripping his shoulders to ground you. He pressed his forehead against yours and released his metal hand from your hip, moving between you. You felt the tip of his cock slips between your folds to nudge at your entrance. He hadn’t even removed his sweatpants. Apparently, he couldn’t wait that long.

The thought made you even wetter for him, and you knew he felt it too when he pushed and slid into your slick entrance with relative ease. He gave a shaky breath and you could feel his taut muscles tremble along his shoulders. As he began to slide forward, your thighs clenched around his waist, the deep ache inside you coaxing a moan from your lips.

Bucky raised one hand to the back of your neck and pulled you against his mouth, dragged his teeth along the side of your throat. You gave a startled noise, and then another stifled moan as he bottomed out, his length embedded as far as it could go. You know you weren’t going to last long, especially with how full and stretched and complete his cock felt buried deep within you.

When he began to thrust, careful at first and then with more force, you felt your walls begin to tighten. He sucked and licked at your neck teasingly, sending little electric shocks down your spine and forcing goosebumps across your skin. All you could do was hold on, gripping him tightly as you arched your neck. He took advantage of the exposed skin, nipping at your throat, adding the sharp sensation to the already overwhelming feel of his cock stretching your walls over and over.

You whimpered and gasped, digging your fingers into him as you stuttered, “Bucky, I’m going to—“

Your words devolved into a sharp cry as you clenched around him, squeezing tightly as your orgasm slammed down hard and erupted like a fireworks show. You were pretty sure you were seeing actual stars.

Bucky’s thrusts became short stabs, forcing your orgasm to last longer as aftershocks made your hips move against him. He grabbed you by the ass and lifted you off the counter then, your eyes rolling back with the rough sensation. You whimpered and squeezed your legs around him to keep from falling, but he held tight, and the feeling of him still inside you as he carried you to the couch was enough to turn you into a moaning, panting mess.

As soon as he laid you against the cushions and pressed his weight on top of you, Bucky wasted no time in giving you the friction you craved. He curled his metal arm around your leg, hooked it around his shoulder, and pounded into you mercilessly.

You arched your spine and clawed at his back, gasping as your thighs startled shaking. The new angle afforded him room to go deeper, hitting a spot he hadn’t reached before, and you nearly saw stars at the startling friction.

Expecting him to return to your neck, you were caught off-guard when he released your hip with his right hand and pressed his thumb to your clit. Bucky was going to make you come again and it had been less than a minute.

The pressure was building fast, curses leaving your lips, and as you approached the finish you curled your back and cried out his name.

The orgasm ripped through you with a ruthless efficiency, leaving you a quivering mess as you tried to hold on as you were swallowed by the tide.

Bucky couldn’t continue his merciless pace as you squeezed around him, and he scrabbled at your thighs, fingers digging in as his thrusts stuttered and he whined into your hair. He quickly pulled out, barely in time as his cum spilled hotly out onto your mound. He gasped and panted for breath, looking up at you through the dark curtains of his hair.

You smiled, _really_ smiled, probably looking like an idiot but not caring either. He stared at you for a long moment, and just when you were about to ask what was wrong, he leaned forward and pressed his lips to yours.

It was warm and tender, so different than his rough, aggressive actions only a moment before.

You shivered as that single kiss rekindled the fire low in your belly. _Oh, come on_. How could your body _still_ want more after being fucked so thoroughly into the couch cushions?

Bucky released your thigh from his metal grip and straightened out his legs, entangling them with yours as he laid half on top of you. He kept his hand on one side of your head while he nuzzled the other. His warmth felt like it was cocooning you in a blanket of comfort.

As it turned out, Bucky was a cuddler too.

You couldn’t stop smiling, closing your eyes and exhaling through your nose as you basked in the pleasant thrum that filled your body. If you could have gone back in time to three days ago and tried to explain to your past-self what you would be doing and who you would be doing it with, she would have thought you were batshit crazy.

“Was that… okay?” Bucky’s voice was low and raspy, the very definition of a sex voice. You hummed, both in contentment and the shiver that went down your spine at the sound of that voice so close to your ear.

“Oh, yeah,” you murmured, almost purring. “More than. That was… really wonderful. You’re wonderful. Can I keep you?”

You stiffened at the realization that was a stupid, horrible thing to say to him, but he merely sounded curious when he repeated, “Keep me?”

“I’m kidding.” Sorta. Not really. “Just ignore me.”

Bucky released a breath of air that you could have sworn was a silent chuckle. He kissed the crown of your head and—

A loud beeping pervaded the kitchen. It shattered the peaceful moment into a thousand fragments, reality crashing down in its broken wake.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader is forced to make a hard decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you forgive me for that last cliffhanger and that this chapter makes up for it :) Let me know what you think since a lot of you have been waiting for this!
> 
> Also, just wanted to clear something up real quick. S.O. in this case stands for Superior Officer, not significant other. Very funny mix-up, but no, Rumlow is not your boyfriend.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Emotional manipulation, unease, general sense of dread

Bucky’s head snapped up from where it had been buried in your hair, his eyes dark.

“What is that?”

_“Shit,”_ you hissed, grabbing onto his shoulders. “Let me up, quick.”

He moved off of you and you slipped past him to grab your discarded underwear and jeans, pulling them on just as you made it to the cupboard on the other side of the fridge. You sensed Bucky right behind you as you opened the cupboard and a small bank of four monitors slid forward.

You searched around the computer console, trying to figure out how to turn the damned thing off. You jabbed a few buttons until you found the one that shut off the ear-splitting klaxon. Sighing in relief, you focused on the monitors to found what had set off the proximity alarm.

Each screen was connected to a camera: one for the back door, the front door, the path to the alley, and the driveway. It was this last that had triggered the alarm system.

You watched as a grey sedan parked next to the house, suspicion tensing your shoulders. You were glad you had parked the van around back where it couldn’t be seen from the street or by the unknown intruder.

The car door opened… and relief flooded your chest. Rumlow rose to his feet and turned his head, surveying the property with a quick glance. Apparently satisfied, he shut the car door and strode up the stone path to the front door.

You turned to Bucky, already smiling, but he was no longer at your side. In fact, you couldn’t see him anywhere. Your relief faded to a frown. Where had he gone?

You were just about to call out his name when he emerged from the bedroom, holding the handgun in his metal fist. He headed directly for the front door.

_“Hey!”_ you shouted as you blocked his path, putting your hands up against his heaving chest. “Bucky, wait!”

“I have to kill him,” he growled between bared teeth.

You could only stare up at him. Gone was the sweet, gentle man that had been there a moment ago. In his place was the cold, deadly expression of the assassin, but there was heat rather than ice in his blue eyes.

He was _furious_.

_“No!”_ you told him, voice rising in distress. “I get that you’re new to the whole _killing S.H.I.E.L.D. agents is wrong_ thing, but—“

“There is no S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he interrupted, a dark storm behind his words. “Only HYDRA.”

At least he had come to a stop and was no longer making a murderous beeline for the front door, but the searing hatred in his eyes brought you no comfort.

“Okay, fine,” you relented, not wanting to dive into semantics, “but that’s my S.O. out there. You are _not_ going to shoot him.”

His jaw tightened as his expression hardened to stone.

“He’s an agent of HYDRA.”

It was as if he’d just spoken an alien language. You heard the words but they bounced off your mind without making an impact.

“What?” You smiled reflexively. It had to be some kind of twisted joke. “No, he would never…”

Bucky did not return the gesture. Instead, his eyes grew harder.

Your words got caught in your throat and you shook your head as if to dislodge the impossible accusation.

“No, you’ve got it wrong. I don’t know what you heard, or what they told you, but… Rumlow would _never _work for HYDRA.”

“I didn’t get a name.” His gaze moved from your face to the front door, his eyes narrowing dangerously. “But he was there when—“

He took an uneven breath and looked back at you so severely you almost stepped back.

“He knows about me,” Bucky said in a low tone. His eyes searched yours, softening a degree. “He knows about _you_. You _can’t_ let him in.”

You nearly jumped as a fist pounded on the door just a few feet from your back, and your heart gave a leap when you heard Rumlow yell, “_Williams!_ _You in there?”_

_“Bucky,”_ you hissed. “Give me the gun.”

He looked past you toward the source of your argument, then back down at you, expression stern.

“Don’t open that door. Let me end this. Now.”

_“No.”_

His glare gathered thunderheads, but you didn’t look away. Instead, you reached forward and wrapped your fingers around the barrel of the gun. You tried to pull it from his grasp; his grip didn’t yield.

His expression was immutable and you were sure he wasn’t going to listen. If he opened that door, if he killed another S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, any chance of getting Rogers on your side was _gone_. The launch would proceed and HYDRA would win.

And yet, none of that loomed as large in your mind as the terror of losing Rumlow. If Bucky killed him…

It felt as if the walls were closing in on you and it was getting harder to breathe. Desperation clutched at your throat as you stared up into Bucky’s face.

“I know this is asking a lot, maybe too much, but… I need you to trust me. _Please.”_

The steel of his gaze wavered, and the hard lines of his brows softened into reluctant surrender.

Bucky released the gun into your hand, jaw clenched, eyes straying past your shoulder with an unhappy look.

Another round of banging erupted from the door, making you jump. You grabbed Bucky by his metal arm and pulled him to the supply closet in the hallway. It was a tight fit, but you managed to nudge him inside.

“Stay here,” you said tightly. “I’ll get him to go away so no one has to _shoot _anyone else.”

You were about to shut the door but Bucky grabbed your wrist and pulled you back.

“If he’s not HYDRA,” he said quietly, blue eyes ablaze, “then how did he know you were here?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

_“Williams!”_ More pounding at the door. You were out of time.

“Stay here,” you hissed, prying your wrist from his grasp, “_and don’t move.”_

It wasn’t until you had shut the door on him that you reflected on similar words he had said not so long ago to you in that horrid cell.

You scanned the room, found the STRIKE hoodie, and quickly pulled it over your head. You grabbed the blanket and yanked it over the couch, covering the obvious stains, old blood and otherwise.

You gave yourself a fast once-over to make sure you were presentable. You looked clean, but there was one thing you couldn’t erase: the room smelled faintly but unmistakably of sex.

Well, shit, there was nothing you could do about _that_ now.

Pressing your lips together, you walked quickly to the door, turned the knob, and opened it a few inches.

Rumlow met your eyes through the slim crack, his eyebrows raised, and then his face broke into obvious relief.

“Williams, thank _Christ._ I thought you were—“

You opened the door the rest of the way and leveled the gun at his face, standing just far enough out of his strike zone.

_“Whoa!”_ he exclaimed while raising his hands to show he wasn’t armed. “Whoa, the fuck?”

You peered past him to the car as you asked, “Did you come alone?”

Rumlow gave an annoyed scoff. “What_?_ Yes, Jesus, I’m alone.”

“Step inside and close the door.”

You moved back as he did what he was told, never wavering as you kept your gun aimed in the center of his torso. He looked different than the last time you’d seen him. Stubble covered his jaw, at least a couple days’ worth, and his face looked like it had been beaten to shit.

Rumlow never took his eyes off of you, either. His expression was a mixture of curiosity and exasperation, but you didn’t miss the way he flicked his eyes around the living room, kitchen, and hallway.

Step one in a hostile environment: assess the surrounding space for immediate threats.

“How did you know I was here?” Your words were as tight as your grip on the gun.

Rumlow gave you one of his signature half grins, as if the question struck him as funny. “Come on, kid. Don’t insult me. I knew what moves you would make if you were still alive.”

You didn’t return the smile. Bucky’s words had rattled you.

“Why would I come here?” you asked with a sour note. “Why wouldn’t I just go straight to HQ?”

Rumlow sighed, his shoulders loosening as he gave you a resigned look.

“Because I knew you would’ve figured out the truth by now.”

“Yeah?” You attempted to keep your tone steady as your heart pounded. “What truth would that be?”

You watched him closely, reading his body language. His expression was still relaxed, but his eyes were discerning.

Step two: identify the highest threat in the room and assess danger level.

Rumlow looked at you for a long moment.

“We have a mole.”

You blinked. That… hadn’t been the answer you were expecting.

“You know?” A kernel of hope beginning to unfold in your chest.

“Yeah,” he said as he tilted his head while looking you over. “And we found out who it was, too.”

“Well?” you prompted, impatient. You were not in the mood for one of Rumlow’s lessons.

He frowned. You suspected it was at your less-than respectful tone.

“None other than Captain Rogers.”

For the second time in so many minutes, your brain seemed unable to process words.

“I… what? Rogers?” You shook your head. “That’s… _No._ He wouldn’t.”

Rumlow slowly pointed his right forefinger towards his left eye, highlighting one of the injuries you had noticed earlier. It was blackened and seemed to be delivered by a hard strike. He pointed to the scrapes on his jaw to solidify his point, and it was a point well-made. Someone getting a punch in on Rumlow was possible, but there was only one person who could make it look like Rumlow had had his face dragged over concrete.

Or rather, there was one super soldier who could.

“Cap gave me these little parting gifts two days ago,” he commented with a wry sneer. “Leadership brought him in for questioning. We were gonna detain him at the Triskelion, keep him secure while we found our answers, but he refused to cooperate, attacked our team, and escaped. He was gone before we could get any answers.”

“Answers?” You felt a tension headache forming behind your eyes. You also felt like you were missing something. “About what? About the convoy attack? My capture? Why would Rogers know about any of that?”

Rumlow furrowed his brows as he stared at you long and hard. And then his face abruptly smoothed in sympathy.

“You don’t know. Christ, of course you don’t. It happened only a few hours after you were taken. Williams…” He took a deep breath. “Director Fury is dead.”

“W… what?”

There was a faint ringing in your ears, and your body suddenly felt light. Untethered.

“He was shot, right there, in Rogers’ apartment. He died an hour later during surgery.”

Rumlow slowly lowered his hands but you didn’t react. It was all you could do to keep your gun on him, your training and muscle memory taking over as you struggled to keep grounded.

“Cap said it was some kind of masked assassin with a metal arm.”

_No._

You felt numb. Weightless.

_No. No no no._

“I know. A guy with a metal arm, weird as shit, right?” he said, most likely interpreting your silence as skepticism. “Rogers tried to throw us off the scent, but now we know they must have been working together. Rogers lured in Fury and the assassin finished the job. Woulda worked, too. Never would have suspected a thing if Rogers hadn’t run—“

“Wait.”

Rumlow blinked at your interruption. He tilted his head curiously, his eyes roving over your face. You could feel the cold sweat breaking out along your hairline.

_Focus. Prioritize. Don’t fucking fumble._

You took a deep breath, forced the tension from your shoulders, and met his eye. He was volleying so much information at you, too much, and you needed to get him to slow the fuck down.

“How do you know Rogers was involved in Fury’s death?” Your voice was a hell of a lot steadier than you thought it would be. Good. That was good.

“Because Rogers,” Rumlow said with a tick in his tightened jaw, “along with a couple of his buddies, kidnapped Agent Sitwell yesterday. The assassin showed up soon after and threw Sitwell out of the car. Right into oncoming traffic.”

Your stomach rolled violently.

“Jasper’s dead?” You cracked on the last word, unable to help it. You had liked Jasper. He’d been a little weird, more of a desk jockey than a field agent, but he’d always been nice to you.

Rumlow nodded gravely, his eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah. And that’s not all. Apparently, Rogers is working for HYDRA.”

You hard-swallowed, forcing down the burning in your throat as you met Rumlow’s eye. You put on a mask of confusion, not too difficult when the emotion looked so much like muted horror.

“HYDRA? Like, the Nazis?”

“Yeah, them,” Rumlow said with a shrug. “Apparently, they’re still kicking around. They’re the ones who attacked the Kartal convoy. Safe to say, they’re the ones who took you.”

“But _HYDRA?”_ You shook your head, easily mimicking the disbelief you’d had only hours ago. “How do you know it was them? I thought we were dealing with some kind of overseas hit squad.”

“Kartal wasn’t working for the Russians,” Rumlow said, his tone almost short as his eyes narrowed. You recognized the signs of him losing patience; you seen it too many times during your training sessions to mistake it for anything else.

“That was just a cover story,” Rumlow continued. “He was working for HYDRA. Said he wanted to come clean. That’s why S.H.I.E.L.D. was called in.”

It corroborated Bucky’s story, but it didn’t make you feel any better. Rumlow had purposefully lied to you.

Despite everything else going on, everything going on, somehow that fact hurt worst of all. Your S.O. had kept you in the dark on purpose and it fucking _stung._ Not only had he not trusted you, he had put you and the entire team at risk.

“So you asked me to lead a mission without giving me all of the information.” Your lips trembled and your words were curdled by bitterness. “What if I could have done something different? Prepared better? What if…”

Your eyes burned but you blinked it away. You couldn’t cry. Not in front of him.

“Why didn’t you_ tell_ me?”

Rumlow’s expression had shifted as you spoke. The impatience was gone and he looked as close to sympathetic as you’d ever seen him.

“You didn’t have clearance, Williams. It was a Level Eight mission. No one knew except me, the Director, and the Secretary.” He spread his hands, a plea to understand his position. “Even now our agents think they’re tracking down Rogers because he’s withholding information on Fury’s death. Almost no one knows HYDRA is a part of this. I don’t think you really understand the stakes here.”

The doubt in his tone made the sting worse. You had been abducted, tortured, dehumanized, and yet _you _didn’t understand the fucking _stakes?_

“Enlighten me,” you ground out between your teeth.

The shadow of a smirk passed over his face, gone so fast you might have imagined it.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. doesn’t just have a mole. It’s compromised as shit. You think Rogers is the only one? That Kartal was an outlier? Fuck, we just found out the _Lemurian Star_ hijacking was a goddamn decoy. Fury hired those pirates to jack our own ship so Romanoff could steal S.H.I.E.L.D. intel for him. Then he just _dies_ a day later? Hell, I’m bettin’ Fury was HYDRA too. This goes all the way to the top, kid.”

You scoffed under your breath. It was ridiculous. It was _outrageous._ First Rogers, and now the Director? It didn’t make any sense. Why would HYDRA send their assassin after Fury if he was one of theirs?

The biggest question was: why hadn’t Bucky told you _any _of this? Why hadn’t he told you Rogers was on the run? Or that the Director was dead? That was the information you needed to know if you had a chance of stopping the launch.

And worst of all, he had to know that.

Who the _fuck_ were you supposed to trust now?

Rumlow started speaking again, forcing you to focus.

“But thank Christ_ you’re_ alive. When we didn’t find a body, we realized they had taken you. Goddamn Rogers must have given HYDRA the escort route. Romanoff had access too. They’re both off the grid. I—”

He furrowed his brows, looked around the room, and said, “Didn’t there used to be a coffee table here?”

You blinked. He had moved further into the living room than you’d realized.

_Get your shit together._ You knew if you fucked this up you were as good as dead. The threat came from either Rumlow or Bucky, or fuck, maybe even both. You had to figure it out, fast.

Addressing Rumlow’s question, you shrugged. “Donno. This is how I found the place.”

Rumlow seemed to find that answer acceptable, or at least, he chose to drop it.

“Listen… this is a Level One priority, kid. All hands on deck. With half our team wiped out, I need you now more than ever.”

He took a step forward. You could see it the moment he shifted into his role as commander; the muscles of his arms bunched briefly as his shoulders squared, his jaw set at a firm angle.

“That’s an order, Williams. I know it’s a lot to take in, but you’re comin’ back to HQ with me—“

On any other day, you would have obeyed without a word. But today, you raised the gun and aimed it at his chest, cutting him off.

“I can’t do that.”

“For _fuck’s_ sake,” he snapped. He then took a breath, eyeing the steady weapon in your hands. “Haven’t we done this song and dance already? What’s gotten into you? Put the goddamn gun down.”

“I don’t know who to trust. So the gun is staying right where it is.”

His lips curled into a prideful smile, the kind of smile you used to seek out with unabashed eagerness. You used to be desperate for it: his praise, his approval, and most of all, his respect. Those things had been hard-earned and desperate treasures you had clung to and hoarded.

It was all that had mattered to you, once.

Now, it felt small and rang hollow.

“How long have I been your commander?” he said with an almost arrogant tilt of his head. “Fifteen years now? If you can’t trust me, you can’t trust anybody.”

That was the core of the problem and he’d hit it on the head. God, you wanted to trust him so badly, but you couldn’t. Not yet. Perhaps he had trained you a little _too_ well.

You were not the only party present that apparently lacked trust. During the entire conversation, his eyes had flickered uneasily around the room. He had noted the two food trays in the kitchen, the messy bed seen through the hallway, and the loose blanket on the sofa.

“Are you alone?”

Yes,” you flatly responded. “Of course I’m alone.”

He jerked his head towards the food trays on the counter.

“Yeah? What’s that, then?”

Even as he asked the question in a casual tone, he eyed your weapon. You could see the gears turning in his head._ Can I get to her before she can shoot me?_

The answer was, no. You were standing just far enough away that you could pull the trigger faster than he could lunge. You could see it in his eyes that he knew it too.

“They didn’t feed me much.” You half-shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. “I was starving and made extra.”

You weren’t sure he bought it, especially since the food trays were barely touched, but you weren’t exactly giving him a choice to call you on your lie, either.

His eyes narrowed.

“How did you escape?”

Ah, the question you had been dreading. It was also one you had prepared for.

“That assassin you were talking about? He was the one who attacked us. He captured me, took me to some kind of abandoned prison about an hour north of here.”

You paused, and the heaviness in your voice didn’t have to be faked.

“But then he… he must have snapped, or something, I don’t know. All I know is, he left a shit ton of bodies behind him. I used the opportunity to escape.”

Rumlow’s lips curled in disbelief.

“Why would he do that? Why didn’t he kill you too?”

Funny how that had been the question you asked yourself so many times.

“I don’t know, sir,” you responded with less of an attitude this time. An idea was forming in your head, and its execution depended on you convincing Rumlow you were willing to be the obedient soldier again. “I just wanted to get the hell out of there.”

“Well, I’m glad you did. You know, I never lost faith you’d make it back to us.” The smile that spread across his lips was probably meant to be friendly, but something about it looked a little too predatory. “Come on, kid. You know you can’t stay here. The safe house could be compromised. Probably is. And HQ really needs to know what the hell happened to you. _I_ need to know.”

He sounded so genuine. This was the man you knew, had known for years, before there was any HYDRA or assassins. This was your S.O., how could you continue to say no to him?

You just prayed Bucky wouldn’t take Rumlow’s persistence as a threat. So far he had stayed quiet, but there was no guarantee he would continue to be.

The choice was obvious. Rumlow wouldn’t leave without you. He was right. You couldn’t stay.

“Okay,” you relented with a small nod. “I need to go home for a new change of clothes first.”

Rumlow took a small step forward. You tensed and gripped the gun tighter, a gesture he didn’t miss as he eyed your hands.

“Actually, you can’t,” he said. There almost seemed to be humor in his gaze. “We gotta search your apartment, make sure Rogers and that metal-armed psychopath aren’t gunnin’ for ya. We can get you a fresh set of clothes at HQ. I’d hate to think what Rogers would do if he got ahold of you. You’re a loose end.”

_I’ll bet._ Bucky wasn’t the only one who had left a trail of bodies behind him. HYDRA probably wanted you just as badly at this point.

“Do you _really_ think Rogers is working for HYDRA?” You were genuinely curious if he believed what he was saying, or if that was just what his superiors had fed him.

Rumlow gave a half-shrug. “He was fightin’ real HYDRA back in the day. Who knows if what he says is true? No one alive left alive who can confirm what really happened in those HYDRA camps.”

Something about the way he said it nagged at you, but you couldn’t pinpoint what it was. It didn’t matter, you were out of time and your decision was made.

Your gut instinct told you not to do it, but if you needed answers, you had to go with him. And to go with him, you needed to show Rumlow you were willing to trust him.

You flipped the gun around in your hand and held it out to him.

“Sorry I pulled a gun on you, sir.”

He stared at the weapon for a moment, alternating between it and your face. He cautiously took the gun, and once it was in his hands, he gave a smile that slid easily onto his face. He put a hand on your shoulder.

“If you _hadn’t_ pulled a gun on me, I woulda known I had failed you.”

The warm gesture and the almost-kind words made you want to give in and tell him everything. About HYDRA, about Bucky, about the launch. It was too much for any one person to handle, and you desperately wanted to pass the burden onto someone who would just… take care of everything. It would be such a relief, both to share the load and to know once and for all that he was the man you thought he was.

But then he removed his hand and tucked the gun into his belt. You kept your secrets and doubts to yourself.

“After the debrief, I can go home, right?” you asked as he led you toward the door. Your hope was Bucky would hear and realize you were telling him you would return after all of this was over, and more importantly, for him to stay put.

“Yeah, sure. The sweep teams should be done soon.”

He opened the door ahead of you but blocked the way as he turned to look at you. All traces of humor wiped from his face.

“I know this is a lot to put on you after the shit you just survived, but I need you in the days to come. I’m gonna be honest, Williams. S.H.I.E.L.D. is such a clusterfuck right now that we might just have to burn it to the ground. Fresh start, ya know?”

_Wipe him. And start over._

A chill shot up your spine, but somehow you managed to nod.

Rumlow put his hand on your shoulder and guided you out of the house. The touch would have felt like affection, once. Now, there was only hollow dread as he led you down the steps to his car.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The players reveal their hands; it was a rigged game from the start.
> 
> Or
> 
> Reader finds out who Bucky and Rumlow really are.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. It's been a while. How you doing? My video card died and my hard drive was on its way out too, so that was a whole thing. I now have my computer back and everything is groovy. I'm really sorry for the delay and I hope this new chapter makes up for it. Love y'all.
> 
> Thank you to [my best bud](https://iampietromaximoff.tumblr.com/post/186431231395/pieces-and-parts) for the kickass chapter banner.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Angst

The drive to HQ was fraught with an odd kind of tension. You weren’t sure if it was coming from you or Rumlow, but he seemed unable to remain completely still behind the wheel. His fingers drummed against the top of the wheel, moved to fiddle with the heater, then went back to tapping.

Despite his apparent restlessness, he drove just below the speed limit, unhurried as he stayed to the right for traffic to pass him by. It made you feel uneasy, especially when compared to his earlier urgency, but it wasn’t long before you figured out what he was doing.

Rumlow began to question you. Various things that would no doubt be covered in your debriefing, but he apparently wanted to know them before you got to HQ. There wasn’t anything out of line with that, it was his right to question you as your superior, but it still made your foot bounce with nerves.

You answered his questions nonetheless, sticking to the truth where you could. You told him about being isolated and tortured. You talked about your escape. You even talked about how you had realized S.H.I.E.L.D. had a mole because of Mrs. Kartal’s warnings.

“Did they make it?” you asked, sounding almost timid in your swirling dread. “Missus Kartal and her son?”

“Yeah. They’re safe,” Rumlow answered, tone too bland for you to discern the truth of it. Were they still alive, or had you ordered Mrs. Kartal and her son right into the waiting jaws of the beast?

Rumlow flicked on the turn signal in a sudden movement and cruised onto the onramp of the freeway, ignorant of your internal strife. “All thanks to you, kid. I can’t say anyone else in that situation woulda gotten ‘em out in one piece. But you did.”

You sunk lower in your seat. His praise felt undeserved at best, and at worst, his words were a mockery.

You didn’t know if Rumlow had turned but you prayed he hadn’t. The man practically sweated S.H.I.E.L.D. patriotism, but Bucky’s earlier reaction hadn’t exactly inspired confidence in you.

_Bucky…_ You wanted to believe him; you also hoped he was lying. If he wasn’t lying, that meant the man you looked up to for years wasn’t the man you thought he was. It meant he was a liar, a traitor, and a murderer.

But if Rumlow _was _telling the truth, that meant Rogers had had a direct hand in your abduction and torture. It meant he was the enemy and you wouldn’t find any aid from him. Worst, it meant Romanoff was on his side, and she was _way _more dangerous than the golden boy of America.

Rumlow or Rogers. Who was the traitor and who was your ally? You didn’t know Rogers very well, though he’d always been polite to the point of borderline shyness.

And Rumlow? He was the closest thing you had to family.

The anxiety was making your chest ache and you took a steadying breath, smoothing a wrinkle on the black STRIKE hoodie. It still smelled like Bucky and you closed your eyes to let the comforting scent ease your nerves. Now that you had a moment to reflect, you were a little mortified to think of what would have happened if Rumlow had shown up a few minutes earlier. You used to give your teammates such shit for thinking with their dicks.

_Former teammates,_ you reminded yourself as a pit formed in your stomach. If Rumlow was HYDRA, then that meant _he_ had set up half of his team to die in the ambush. You couldn’t believe that was true.

You couldn’t… except something had begun to nag at you, prodding at the back of your mind over the duration of the car ride. There was one thing you couldn’t figure out. _Jones._

A memory flashed across your mind: Friday night, the team at a grubby bar in downtown DC. The guys were loud and raucous, alcohol-fueled grins plastered on their faces as they gave “peach fuzz” Jones all kinds of shit. It was his twenty-first birthday and he was making the most of it, his own cheeks red after taking another shot of mint vodka. His eyes were glazed from the buzz of the alcohol, reflecting the tacky holiday lights that hung from the bar rafters all year long.

That rich brown gaze remained glassy as it stared up at you from the fluorescent-lit concrete, the spreading red halo a declaration of your guilt. You could still feel the weight of the pistol in your hand, hot and alive as his body started to cool in the frigid night air.

You opened your eyes and swallowed down the lump in your throat. _Focus on the facts. _Why had Jones been at that compound? He hadn’t been part of the Kartal family detail, so he hadn’t been an escaped prisoner like you. No, Jones had been assigned to the _Lemurian Star_ mission with Rumlow.

Half the team on the _Lemurian Star_. The other half with the Kartals. Everyone who had been part of the convoy team was dead. Everyone except for you.

To make matters worse, this had been your_ first _mission as team leader. Your fingers dug into the fabric of the hoodie when you realized who had filled out the rosters. Rumlow had decided who went on the Kartal mission and who stayed behind.

Jack Rollins was Rumlow’s second in command; _he_ should have been the one to lead the mission. Rumlow never should have assigned you to a leadership role for something so important.

_Why had he?_

There was the matter of Jones. A follower on his best day, not a renegade let alone a rogue, and whatever he was involved in, Rumlow would know about it.

_Wouldn’t he?_

Even if Rumlow hadn’t known Jones was HYDRA, at best, _at best _that meant he had no idea what was going on in his own team and they had died due to his negligence. Rumlow should have been a protector and a guide, vigilant to make sure the danger never came from within your own ranks.

_He hadn’t been._

You tried to control your breathing. Had Bucky been right all along? Was Rumlow HYDRA or was he just extremely incompetent?

_Fuck._ You should have figured this out earlier, and _would_ have if you had had your head on straight and hadn’t let your weakness for the former assassin distract you.

Even now as your thoughts turned toward him, your chest squeezed in anxiety. Had Bucky killed Director Fury and Jasper? Why hadn’t he told you?

_I’ve done terrible things_._ If you knew even a fraction of them, you wouldn’t even… even be able to look at me._

Maybe he’d tried, and you simply hadn’t listened.

“You okay, kid? Bein’ awfully quiet.”

Rumlow’s voice shook you from your mired guilt. You hadn’t realized you were staring out of the front windshield, looking without really seeing.

You wanted to turn toward him, shout your accusations and force him to confess that _all _of this was his fault. You wanted to punch him across the jaw and demand to know how he could have let everything get so fucked. Rumlow couldn’t lie to you any longer, not with Jones as the smoking gun.

Instead, you took a steadying breath.

“Not really,” you said with quiet bitterness. “Half the team is gone. They’re just…_ gone_.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Williams,” he said, his voice surprisingly sympathetic.

“I know _that,” _you snapped. You saw him slightly turn his head toward you out of the corner of your eye.

_Shit._ You needed to calm the fuck down and save your anger for when you weren’t trapped with Rumlow in a car speeding down the freeway.

Biting his head off felt so good, though. It _really_ did.

“What I mean is, there was nothing you could have done differently,” he said, all reasonable. “It’s a fuckin’ kick to the balls when you lose people. You’re gonna wanna blame yourself, but you can’t. You gotta compartmentalize.”

He was right, and that was exactly what you had to do. Rumlow, one way or another, was responsible for this hell you were in. You couldn’t do anything about that now, so you packed it away in a tidy little box and put it in storage. He would answer for its contents later. You would make goddamn certain of that.

“I don’t blame myself,” you answered, voice flat as you stared through the windshield. “I blame the people responsible. Every single one of them is going to pay with fucking interest.”

“There she is,” Rumlow said, giving a low chuckle. Your desire to bash in his head multiplied a hundredfold. “That’s my girl.”

Your heart swelled with pride before you could stop it. The immediate swoop in your chest, so sharp and admonishing it made the emotions swirl into a sickening and confusing mixture.

You were spared from having to make any more conversation; he pulled the car up to the row of doors that led directly into the front lobby.

That surprised you, expecting he would go into the underground parking structure. He must have seen your expression, because as he unbuckled his belt he said, “We’re taking the fast way. Someone wants to talk to you first.”

“Who?” you asked, suspicion tensing your muscles.

Rumlow smiled and winked.

“Big secret.”

Frowning at that cryptic statement, you unbuckled your own seatbelt and exited the car. The winter air was biting, and you wished you had thought to bring a coat over the thin hoodie.

You followed Rumlow inside through the doors into the lobby. At first, only fleeting glances were thrown your way, but then more and more heads turned.

“O-o-okay,” you said slowly. You couldn’t help the way your shoulders curled in defense at so many eyes on you. “What did I do?”

Rumlow didn’t seem the least worried, and in fact, put a hand on your shoulder as he grinned broadly.

“Got captured by the guy who killed the Director and then lived to tell about it.”

You blanched at the forced recollection. It wasn’t Bucky’s fault, you reminded yourself. It didn’t make the grim news any easier to swallow.

“I got lucky,” you responded tensely. He took his hand away, and despite yourself, you felt unsteady without its weight.

“Eh,” he said with a half-shrug, “it may have been part of it, but luck only gets you so far.”

He wasn’t wrong. Your escape hadn’t been lucky—it had all been because of Bucky’s help, and you still didn’t know why he had done such a complete turnaround.

You hoped you lived long enough to ask him.

“Wait here a sec.”

You watched as Rumlow strode across the lobby; once he was out of sight, you took your first real breath.

Trying to play your old role with Rumlow was taking a toll already. Sure, you were an agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., but you weren’t a covert spy like Romanoff. You were STRIKE. Your job was to storm the castle, not try and outwit the king.

Discomforted by the attention from the agents around you, you turned toward the part of the lobby you had always ignored: the public section. There was a display of Steve Rogers, large and situated in front to pull in the eye. The history of S.H.I.E.L.D. was documented on the walls for interested minds to discover.

You started at the more modern end. Most of the mural was taken up by pictures of the Battle for New York. It had only been a couple years ago, but the day was still fresh in your mind. You’d been on the Helicarrier with your team and sent to Stark Tower for the cleanup. Aliens, Asgardian gods, and the fact S.H.I.E.L.D. had been forced to reveal itself to the world, it had been the craziest day of your life.

Well, until now, anyway.

The Avengers, looking war-torn but somehow valiant, stared down on you as you walked by. You also came across the members of the board, including Dr. Hank Pym and Howard Stark until his death.

Next was the Cold War era, and despite the lack of much detail on the wall, you knew S.H.I.E.L.D. had had a lot of run-ins with the Soviets during that time.

Finally you got to the SSR and its most prominent members: Chester Phillips, Howard Stark, and your personal hero, Peggy Carter. Others included Daniel Sousa and Jack Thompson as early members of the SSR New York branch.

All of this history, all of these brilliant minds and celebrated heroes, but somehow HYDRA had been hiding within it, biding its time for the last seventy years.

Doubt and fatalism began to creep in again and you were left feeling _helpless._ Seven decades of the best S.H.I.E.L.D. had to offer couldn’t stop HYDRA. What hope could you possibly have?

You were just about to turn back to the lobby when your eye caught onto the World War II section. Captain American’s origins. You peered closer at the display; Rogers was standing amidst a group of soldiers on a dirt path in an autumnal forest. The men grinned at the camera, arms around each other’s shoulders as cigarettes dangled from curled lips.

_Howling Commandos,_ you silently read the engraved words. _Rescued from the rogue Nazi science division known as HYDRA, they became stalwart allies and close friends of Captain Rogers._

_But one amongst them had been a companion to the great Captain America long before the war and Project Rebirth. James Buchanan Barnes, also referred to by his friends as “Bucky”—_

You stared at the letters. Read them again. And again.

_James Buchanan Barnes._

_Bucky._

You focused again on the photo blown up onto the mural, your eyes automatically drawn to one particular face.

It was like staring at a living ghost, and wasn’t that what he was? His hair was shorter and his face clean-shaven in sepia tones. He was young, startlingly so, but his eyes… there was a forlorn look in them you would have recognized anywhere.

There was no doubt this was the same Bucky who had been controlled by HYDRA. The same one who had been your only source of comfort in that hellish cell. The same one who had ensured your freedom.

_Your _Bucky.

With trembling fingers, you reached forward and pulled one of the pamphlets out of its holder. The paper shook as you opened it up, and inside was a different picture, this one of Rogers and Bucky standing side by side, dirtied and bloodied but their teeth flashing white in happy smiles.

Or at least, Rogers was. Bucky had his lips quirked in the approximation of a smile, but there was something brittle in his expression as he looked to his best friend.

You turned to the back of the pamphlet to see a range of dates.

**March 10th, 1917 – February 1st, 1945**

_How? How is this possible?_ You narrowed your eyes as you read the smaller print. Bucky had been presumed dead after he had fallen from a transport train during Armin Zola’s capture.

A _train._ Bucky _had _mentioned a train.

It said nothing about how it was possible for a man who had supposedly died in 1945 to be here, now in D.C., looking like he hadn’t aged much at all.

At least you knew one thing for certain. Steve Rogers definitely knew him, and there was no doubt he would aid you in helping his once-best friend.

_“Williams!”_

You quickly folded the pamphlet and slid it into your pocket, turning to face Rumlow and finding he was not alone. Your back went rigid with honed-discipline at the sight of a superior.

“So, this is the esteemed protégé,” Alexander Pierce said with a warm smile, extending his hand to you.

Time seemed to stand still as words echoed to you from within the depths of your memory.

_Wipe him—_

it couldn’t be

he had been there

in your _cell_

he was the one in charge

the man who gave the orders

he knew heknewheknew

_—and start over._

Your hand was being shaken, but you didn’t remember moving it from your side.

“Secretary Pierce,” you said evenly as he kept your hand clasped in his. His eyes were a faint cornflower blue, ones you recognized along with the timbre of his voice.

_The graduation ceremony at the Academy. He gave a speech. It was **him.**_

“Brock told me all about your heroic escape from the hands of that assassin,” he commented, exposing a smile that was all pearly white teeth. It reminded you of a shark circling its floundering dinner.

“All thanks to my training,” you found yourself saying as you retracted your hand mechanically. Your heartbeat was thudding in your ears and prayed he couldn’t see the terror behind your eyes.

“Without it, I wouldn’t be here.”

“And she’s humble, too,” Pierce said, brows lifting as he turned to look at Rumlow. His discerning blue eyes did not reflect the warmth on the rest of his expression.

“Didn’t learn that from me,” Rumlow responded with a lopsided smirk.

Pierce chuckled and turned back to you. _He really does have the charming, handsome old man routine down to an art. _Hatred curled in your gut for the both of them. You felt naked without a weapon, not even so much as a knife in your boot, but you could improvise. Elbows and the heel of a hand could do a fantastic amount of damage given enough motivation.

“I apologize for not being able to speak with you longer,” Pierce said with a small smile, his eyes roving over your features. You didn’t care for it one goddamn bit. “You need to get to your debriefing and I need to attend to some special guests for the launch. I just wanted to tell you that I’m very impressed, and I look forward to working with you more closely in the future.”

Once upon a time, that pronouncement would have been enough to brighten your entire world. Flattered and star-struck wouldn’t have covered it.

Now, all you could do was give him a plastic smile and say, “Thank you, sir. I look forward to that as well.”

Pierce’s smile didn’t falter exactly, but it did seem to catch, as if you had done something he hadn’t expected. He recovered quickly and gave Rumlow a nod. “I’m counting on you to make this launch as smooth as possible, Brock.”

Rumlow responded with a curt, “Yes, sir.”

You watched Pierce long after he had turned away, and didn’t take your eyes off of him until he disappeared around the bank of elevators.

Bucky had been right again. There was no S.H.I.EL.D. Not anymore. Not with Director Fury dead. There was no doubt as to why he had been assassinated; to make room for Pierce to take over without challenge.

“Can’t wait to take that bastard down.”

When you turned to Rumlow you saw he was staring up at the larger-than-life mural of Captain America.

“Yeah,” you responded, looking directly at Rumlow. “The thought that HYDRA could still exist and be a part of S.H.I.E.L.D. makes me want to fucking retch.”

Stupid. Really, _really_ stupid. Rumlow looked at you out of the side of his eye.

He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, a gesture you knew meant annoyance, and he said, “Come on. Time for that debrief.”

He turned from the historical archives and strode across the lobby.

You caught up to him, really wishing you had a weapon. Right now, you didn’t feel like you were in a place you would have once called home, surrounded by colleagues and a team. You felt like you were far behind enemy lines. Alone and without backup. The prison had been a nightmare, but there was something about this situation that felt even more sinister. At least in the prison, you had known who your enemies were. Now, every face could be an insidious mask and every smile could be a knife in the dark.

“Insight Bay,” Rumlow told the control system as soon as you stepped inside the elevator. The doors shut behind you, the sunlight streaming in through the glass wall giving you little comfort.

_“Agent Williams does not have clearance,”_ the automated female voice responded.

“Command Override 61311,” he replied with a roll of one shoulder.

_“Confirmed.”_

The view of the lobby vanished as the elevator began to descend underground instead of lift upward into the building. You shifted on your heels, nerves getting the better of you.

“So,” you said, trying to figure out where Rumlow was taking you, “what was this about a launch?”

Rumlow glanced your way, a crooked half-smile spreading across his lips. “Another big surprise. New security protocol we’ve been working on ever since the Incident. It might even help us take down Rogers.”

You knew he was talking about the three Helicarriers, but you furrowed your brow anyway. “I’ve never heard of that. Why wasn’t I told?”

“Because,” he responded, the tilt of his head smug, “only those above Level Eight have clearance to know.”

You didn’t have to feign confusion this time.

“There are no levels past Eight except for the board members and director,” you told him.

Rumlow’s smile was near delighted. “I was gonna wait to tell you after your mission report, but… Oh, what the fuck, no point in keepin’ it a secret. We’re gonna be bumping your clearance.”

Light filled the elevator, but it was not the buttery sunshine filtered in through the lobby’s windows. You turned to look out of the glass, and your mouth dropped open at the impossible span of space in front of you. Towering steel walls encircled a hangar bay that was large enough to fit a city block or two.

Nestled inside, huge and monstrous and dwarfing the crew around it to the size of tiny black ants, were three completely assembled Helicarriers.

“Williams,” Rumlow put his hand on your shoulder, “Welcome to Project Insight.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader finds herself backed into a corner, but she's not alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really excited about this chapter, y'all. We're getting into some plot now.
> 
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](https://trashmenofmarvel.tumblr.com/) but if you're not comfortable with that I always love your comments and kudos on here. Thank you for being awesome.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Drama

You and Rumlow didn’t linger in the Helicarrier bay for long—just enough for the ice cold dread to weigh heavily on your heart as you realized how in over your head you were. The sight so surreal and yet horrifyingly real and solid.

Aware of Rumlow’s watchful eye, you put on an expression of awe and wonderment, hoping he bought the act, because you sure as hell didn’t feel awe-struck and wondrous. Your stomach roiled with nerves and a white noise filled your head. HQ had been your home for years, and you had never suspected what was lying beneath your feet.

Your relief was palpable when Rumlow took you back into the elevator, but the feeling immediately vanished when he opened a door and led you inside to what was definitely_ not_ a conference room.

You had expected to be debriefed by board members and liaisons and officials from the US government. Possibly the World Security Council itself if your streak of bad luck held. Sweat had already begun to break across your hairline at the thought of what you would, and would not, tell them about HYDRA.

Apparently, you wouldn’t have to worry about that. The room beyond the door was dimly lit and windowless, the only source of light from faintly buzzing fluorescent strips above your head. The space contained a table, two chairs on opposing sides, and a computer console with wires leading from it to several small devices on the table. You recognized them as biometric readers for what could only be an advanced, S.H.I.E.L.D.-designed polygraph machine.

This wasn’t a debriefing. It was an interrogation.

“What is this?” Your voice was faint but even as you turned to face your commander. You half expected him to be holding a gun. Or maybe a pair of pliers.

Instead, he gave a flimsy apologetic grin and said, “Sorry, kid. We don’t have time for a full debriefing, so Agent Gillespie here is going to do a quick run-through with you. Just some basic Q&A for now, we’ll get all the details later. The new director really wants you to be there for the launch.”

Your spine went rigid at the words _new director_, but you simply nodded your head, the ever obedient soldier.

“Yes, sir.”

Rumlow patted your shoulder, warm but rough. You managed not to wince as he jostled your wound. It was definitely healing but still hurt like a bitch when someone touched it. You wondered if he knew it was there and was doing it on purpose.

Despite knowing what was ahead of you—needing to fool one of the most accurate lie detectors ever invented—you were still relieved when the door shut behind him. It was difficult to keep a clear head when your emotions fluctuated between simmering rage and sickened betrayal.

“Please, have a seat,” Agent Gillespie said with a nod toward the chair. You did as instructed, eyeing him out of the corner of your vision. He was sandy-haired, in his late 30s and already balding, his face pasty and pale. Not exactly field agent material.

He wasn’t your concern; the agent who stood in front of the closed door, tall and dark with watchful eyes and strong hands clasped in front of him, was here to ensure things went smoothly. You glanced downwards at his suit jacket, noting the distorted shape of a holstered gun underneath. He didn’t take his eyes off of you, either.

Gillespie attached electro-dermal monitors to your fingertips after spreading your hand outs on the table. He placed electrodes to the sides of your neck, as well as a blood pressure cuff on your arm. He returned to his computer screen and you were glad to be free of the cloud of overpowering cologne that hung around him like a miasma.

“State your name for the record. Keep your eye on the camera and face straight forward while answering, please.” The blue-white light of the monitor reflected off his glasses, obscuring your ability to read his eyes.

You gave him the information as he requested it: name, birthdate, place of birth, and other basic questions as he formed baseline for your responses. Seeing as you were already keyed up and covered in a thin sheen of sweat, you wondered if it would help or hinder your case.

“Tell me what happened the day you were captured.”

You recounted the tale as evenly as you could, excluding Mrs. Kartal’s warning about S.H.I.E.L.D. Gillespie was apparently not a very good liar himself, because he slightly frowned as he watched your biometric readouts. He continued on as if nothing was wrong, but you knew that was strike one.

When you began to recall the white room, your voice already strained and your fingers trembled, you were surprised when Gillespie interrupted you to say, “We’ll return to that later. For now, I want you to tell me about the metal-armed soldier.”

The hairs on the back of your neck rose as goosebumps broke out across your skin. You had never referred to Bucky as a soldier, only as an assassin. The specific word choice set your nerves on high alert, a response which was undoubtedly being recorded through the oxygen exchange rate in your blood, your HPM, and the level of sweat on your fingertips.

_Shit._

“What do you want to know? He captured me.”

That was true.

“I’m assuming he put me in that cell.”

Also true.

“When I tried to escape, he recaptured me.”

Truth in a roundabout way.

“And then he killed his allies and I escaped.”

Lying by omission.

His brows furrowed but you couldn’t see past the reflective lenses. You needn’t have bothered; Gillespie turned and nodded to the agent at the door. He slipped his gun from his holster at the signal. It was aimed toward the floor rather than trained on you, but the warning was clear.

_Well,_ _guess I’m no Romanoff._

“Stand up,” Gillespie said, doing the same himself as he reached for the walkie-talkie on the desk.

You obeyed him without a word, slowly raising your hands to show you weren’t going to resist.

“Just let me talk to Rumlow,” you said in a pleading, unarmed voice. “I can explain everything.”

“You move, I put a bullet in that leg,” the unnamed agent said as he crept forward.

Gillespie raised the radio. It was now or never.

You took a deep breath, loosened your muscles, and—

_“Attention all S.H.I.E.L.D. agents,”_ a familiar voice said over the intercom,_ “This is Steve Rogers.”_

Your mouth dropped and the two agents in front of you exchanged a look of bewildered confusion.

_“You’ve heard a lot about me over the last few days. Some of you were even ordered to hunt me down,”_ Rogers continued, voice grave. _“But I think it’s time you know the truth.”_

Your heart hammered in your chest, but you snapped your mouth closed and remained completely still, keeping your gaze focused on the two men. They were the immediate threat, you couldn’t let yourself be distracted by Rogers’ impromptu announcement.

_“S.H.I.E.L.D. is not what we thought it was,”_ he said after a heavy pause. _“It’s been taken over by HYDRA.”_

The two agents looked back to you, eyeing you carefully. They weren’t just watching to make sure you didn’t move. They were gauging you for something.

_“Alexander Pierce is their leader. The STRIKE and Insight crew are HYDRA as well.”_

The armed agent slightly raised his gun so it was now aimed at your chest.

_“I don’t know how many more,”_ Rogers said grimly, _“but I know they’re in the building. They could be standing right next to you.”_

Gillespie shuffled slightly his feet. Sweat beaded across his forehead but he hadn’t activated his comms. You waited.

_“They almost have what they want. Absolute control. They shot Nick Fury.”_

You frowned. _Shot? _Not_ killed?_

_“And it won’t end there. If you launch those Helicarriers today, HYDRA will be able to kill anyone that stands in their way. Unless we stop them.”_

You had only worked with Rogers on a few missions, but you’d always thought he was quiet to the point of shyness. You didn’t know where all of this was coming from, but you were grateful for the unintentional distraction.

_“I know I’m asking a lot,”_ he said in understanding tones. It felt as if he was speaking directly to you. Wishful thinking. He had no idea you were here, and finding him in the approaching chaos was going to be a nightmare.

_“But the price of freedom is high. It always has been. And it’s a price I’m willing to pay. And if I’m the only one, then so be it.”_

A meaningful pause.

_“But I’m willing to bet I’m not.”_

The intercom clicked off, smothering the room in oppressive silence. The two men stared, tense and waiting, and you carefully weighed your options.

Rogers had just inadvertently painted a target on your back as a member of STRIKE. The agents before you had an obligation to treat you as a hostile force if they weren’t HYDRA themselves.

You had no way of knowing if they were. You didn’t know them, but you _did _know Rumlow.

_Control the battlefield. Control the enemy’s movements. And most of all, control yourself. You do that,_ _and you’ve already won the fight._

You confidently slipped the electrodes off your skin and the monitors from your fingertips. With the two agents watching you carefully, you lifted your chin, smiled with the arrogance of a member of STRIKE, and said:

“Hail HYDRA.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know y'all were hoping it was Bucky who showed up, but don't you worry, we get to see what he's doing next chapter :) Love ya


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky grapples with his memories, the ground he treads as dangerous as a minefield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our second Bucky POV chapter! Enjoy!
> 
> Chapter warnings: PTSD, references to past trauma

38 Minutes Earlier

As soon as the front door slammed shut, he barreled out of the closet and shot across the kitchen. Looking around, movements frantic, he didn’t see what he was searching for.

He went into the bedroom. There, on the floor, discarded clothing. The sweatpants she had been wearing that night. He found the van keys underneath and snatched them up quickly. Returning to the living room, he hastily stripped off his clothing.

Stained by blood and sweat, his gear still offered better protection than the clean set he had found in the closet. He winced as he pulled his tac pants over the bandaged wounds. They weren’t fully healed yet, but he was—

_—pushed onto the table, not roughly but not gently either. He lay on his back without having to be told. Their examination was as thorough as it was clinical, recording the location and size of the gunshot wounds that marked his right shoulder. Blood trickled onto the table, unheeded and ignored; it would be tended to after. He had been stripped bare, cold and exposed, but the doctors made no remark as he trembled. He knew he had to be still, had to be quiet; he would be punished if—_

Bucky blinked, finding the laces of his boots in his hand, halfway through a knot.

_Oh._

Swallowing down the taste of metal in his mouth, it took him a moment longer to finish dressing, feeling off-balance from the brutal, sudden influx of memory.

Once he had his boots on and his vest snapped shut, he went to the one room of the house that didn’t seem to have a purpose (but of course it did, all safe houses had such a room). He found the false wall without difficulty and slid open the panel, doing a quick survey of the weapons inside before grabbing a duffel bag and filling it with armaments.

Geared up and loaded with weapons, he strode out the back door, knowing he wasn’t triggering any alarms from his patrols. Not that it would have mattered anyway, he wouldn’t be returning to this place.

He unlocked the van and pushed the duffel between the empty space between the two front seats, letting out a huff of air as he sat hard and jostled his injuries. He shut the door and inserted the keys, turning the ignition until the vehicle roared to life. He eased the van down the gravel until the driveway turned to asphalt, and made a right. He knew where to go.

He leaned back in his seat, focused ahead on the road as he kept two hands on the wheel, easing into traffic. _Lunch traffic,_ he thought. He wasn’t sure where he had picked up the phrase, some snippet of casual conversation he had overheard, lost in his memories. One of many that had been popping into his head the past few hours.

_Bucky._ That’s what the blond man (_Target Level Six:_ _Captain Rogers_) had called him. It had unnerved him and wouldn’t let him be, following like a second shadow. When the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent had spoken the name, it had fit better. First to wake him from the nightmare, the one where he had been falling from the train, and then later as he had felt her clenching around him.

He tensed, willed away the memories. They were a distraction, a difficult one to be rid of; even now he could feel the ghost of her fingertips against his scalp, the impression of her lips against his scars.

Bucky exhaled sharp and impatient. The harder he tried _not_ to think of her, the more he did.

He had been told (by who, he couldn’t recall) that he was a disciplined tool, an extension of HYDRA’s will, a honed weapon. Ever since he had met the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, though, his body had become willful and noncompliant. He remembered his confusion with the way it had responded to things it shouldn’t. Remembered her body against his chest as he restrained her, strong in her own right, trying to stem her violence. Then when she had relaxed, pliant in his grip. He hadn’t expected that, and his body reacted in a way it shouldn’t have. It had _wanted._

The shame was never far below the surface, and it came rushing to the top again. He had known his fixation was going to be observed as a malfunction, but he hadn’t been able to stop himself. He’d been drawn to her, pulled in her direction no matter how hard he had tried to ignore it. She had occupied his thoughts even in the middle of missions, slowing his reaction time and making it so Rogers and his allies escaped alive.

It was only a matter of time before he was punished for his failure, so he had returned to the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent after her last conditioning procedure. She had been angry with him, at his compliance with her torment, but all he could see was the gaunt dehydration of her skin. He had brought her water. Her suffering had made him restless, agitated, and easing her discomfort had soothed him in turn. She had fallen asleep in his hand, like an injured bird, small and fragile. He had been careful not to move an inch.

Bucky remembered not just that moment, but the others as well; where she had reached for him. Where she had touched him so tenderly, as if he might break. No one had touched him like that before. Those memories were a precious secret, and he held them close to his chest, jealously guarding them from those who would take them away.

His handlers had remained ignorant of his irregular behavior.

The blond man (_The Director_) had found out anyway. He always seemed to know. This hadn’t been the first time Bucky had disobeyed orders, though exactly what had caused those past lapses, he couldn’t remember. How many times had he defied his handlers? How many times had they wiped him clean? What else had they done to him beyond what could be seen? How many pieces had they taken from him to leave a half-living shell in his place?

No matter how hard he strained, he just couldn’t _remember._

The Director had ordered him wiped just so Bucky would forget her. There was no doubt she would have been punished for his actions as well. He didn’t want to think about what would have happened if that other part of him, buried in the darkness for as long as he could remember, hadn’t clawed to the surface and screamed to be heard.

_Bucky._

He was sure it was his name. He liked it too much when it came from her lips for it to not mean anything.

_My name is Bucky._

Who that person was, who he used to be, he still didn’t know. There would be time enough for that _after._

The white cylinder-shaped building loomed on the horizon now. Was she already there with the HYDRA operative? Possibly. He regretted letting her go, but he knew it was their best chance at stopping the launch by getting her inside.

Bucky also knew if he had intervened, she would have tried to stop him. Gotten hurt or worse. If he had succeeded in killing the man, a man she trusted and put her faith in, she would have seen it as a betrayal. She wouldn’t understand Bucky only wanted to protect her, shield her from HYDRA’s ever-growing reach. The agent had suffered greatly at their hands, but it would have been a shadow compared to their endgame agenda.

No. She had needed to see the truth for herself or she would never believe it. So he had remained quiet and let them go.

He still didn’t know if it was the right decision. The most effective decision at executing the mission, yes, but Bucky could still lose her, and that was an unacceptable loss. It would have been so much simpler if he could have just killed the HYDRA operative. Rumlow, she had called him. He had only known him as Commander.

Bucky could remember the first time they met. He had been thawing out of cryo, confused by his surroundings. He was in a sterile lab, not a decommissioned missile silo, the men speaking English instead of Russian. He waited for the red book to appear and the words to be said. They weren’t, and his confusion had deepened.

He remembered Rumlow peering down at him as they shoved him into the Machine, encircling his limbs with cold restraint as the headpiece partially blocked his vision. That was familiar, at least.

That memory was fractured and difficult to stare at for too long, like a cracked mirror. The memories around the time in the machine were all like that, brittle and broken with deadly edges.

The memories of Rumlow were like that too, an unsettling mixture of shifting images that hurt to look at for too long. Other faces floated to the surface, along with the yellow eagle symbol of the STRIKE team. He couldn’t remember how long he had been away from his Siberian handlers, and he shied away from thinking about the American branch of HYDRA, his stomach twisting. There were lurking memories there, swimming under the surface like slimy, insidious things. Things willing to strip his skin down to the bone if he tried to step into those waters.

Bucky left them alone for now. Though those memories were still inaccessible, his most recent encounter with Rumlow was not. The Director had come to question him on his mission, the timid doctors on his heels. Rumlow had also been there, and though he hadn’t spoken, he had kept his eyes on the S.H.I.E.L.D. agent. Roving over her still form with a curiosity bordering on possessive.

Bucky hadn’t liked that. Not at all. And now his agent was on her own, unarmed and heading behind enemy lines with a man who made Bucky’s skin crawl for reasons he couldn’t pinpoint. It didn’t matter, Rumlow was a direct threat to her, and that was more than enough reason for Bucky to want to crush his spine between his hands.

He had a few other choice names for Rumlow. Bastard. Prick. _Flaming piece of dogshit._ He was remembering those, too, the words he had forgotten. Associations he could make to normal life and everyday objects. They had been difficult for him to fully articulate until now. HYDRA may have forced him to learn multiple languages for infiltration purposes, but they hadn’t needed a skilled conversationalist to pull a trigger.

Bucky heard the wheel creak ominously and he loosened his grip. Knowing that she was dangerously close to being within their possession again made his heart stutter. He wouldn’t let them take her again. He wouldn’t. She was _good._ Her exterior was hard and layered with defenses, but he had seen the sweetness underneath. He wouldn’t let them ruin her. Not like they had ruined him.

His eyes narrowed when he spotted the car ahead. A silver sedan, the one from the surveillance monitor. Rumlow’s vehicle. He was catching up.

Bucky took a breath and forced himself to remain far enough behind that he wouldn’t be spotted. He knew how to tail a target. Rumlow might be HYDRA too, but Bucky had years of experience on him. _Decades?_ He wasn’t sure and he couldn’t peer into his mind too closely without feeling that roiling in his stomach and the hairs on his nape stand up.

Bucky realized he was biting down and he relaxed his jaw. The chill still pervaded the van despite the warm air coming through the vents. There was snow pushed to the side of the avenues, melting in the midday sun, but they couldn’t be gone fast enough for Bucky. He hadn’t minded the idea of snow while with his S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but now that he was alone, the piles of white reminded him of the place he had been kept longer than most.

Recalling what little he could remember of Siberia filled him with unease. His clearest memory was of his chamber. The frosted glass, the dense fog illuminated by the overhead lamps, the tubes and sensors that waited like spider legs to snatch him up into its web.

A part of him, too large for him to ignore, _craved _going back under. Deep asleep in his chamber, there was no white hot sizzling across his scalp. There were no distant screams or copper smell clogging his nostrils. And there were no dreams about days filled with sunshine spent next to a frail boy who sometimes wheezed.

There was only nothingness, and that caverning nothing pulled at him as if attached by a thread. He had been out of his chamber longer than he could previously remember being, but the words from the red book hadn’t been spoken in even longer. He was positive this was a factor in how he had been able to defy his programming.

But it had only been _one_ factor. The driving force behind his defiance was currently in a silver sedan sixty-four feet ahead of him.

The car slowed at the turnoff that would take them to the Triskelion drawbridge. Bucky drove past the road, heading to a nearby park where he could stash the van and proceed on foot. The man who had given him his orders had shown him the best way to infiltrate the property when it came time to eliminate Rogers.

Grim satisfaction curled in Bucky’s chest at the thought he could use his knowledge against them.

Bucky parked the vehicle and left the keys in the sunshade in case he had to make a quick retreat. No one bothered him or even noticed him as he crossed the park grounds and made it to the boundary marking SHIELD property. There was a gate for maintenance access and he typed the code in with his right hand, the duffel bag of weapons swung over his left shoulder. The latch clicked open and he went through, shutting it behind him. There were cameras overlooking the gate, but he knew the code would override the feeds. They would loop the footage thirty seconds before and after the code had been entered, rendering him a ghost. It was how he moved through all HYDRA-controlled facilities, of which there were a great number.

As he drew closer to the sprawling campus, he could see something was happening. People were standing around, their heads tilted back as they listened to an announcement. Bucky recognized the voice. The man from the bridge. Steve Rogers. He was here.

Bucky’s footsteps slowed as he paused. Conflicted.

He had two missions. _Stop the launch. Keep his agent safe._

He didn’t know which took precedence and he had no one to take orders from now. Only himself.

The intercom went silent and people were beginning to move, slow at first in their confusion, and then faster in panic. It didn’t concern him, he worked well within chaos.

His eyes trailed over the towering headquarters. She would most likely be in that building. He needed a vantage point, and stealing a Quinjet would give him that. It would also grant him a vehicle and a powerful weapon all in one. If he couldn’t find her, only _then _he would attempt to take out the control tower and stop the launch from there.

Bucky found his decision it hadn’t been difficult at all. _She_ was his priority. If he couldn’t stop what was about to happen, he would grab Williams and run. No matter how much she protested, they would leave. She was too important to him, and he would do whatever it took to get her as far from HYDRA as possible.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Williams surrounded by enemies, Bucky has his work cut out for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have 3 chapters left until part 1 is complete. I'm excited/nervous for the end.
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay and I hope this big beefy chapter will make up for it :)
> 
> I have many many Bucky fics planned for the future, including some one-shots over Halloween, so watch for those!
> 
> Chapter warnings: Violence, misogynistic language

The two men stared at you for a long moment, just long enough for you to wonder if your gamble had been a huge miscalculation.

With a monumental relief they returned your smile, repeated “Hail HYDRA” back at you, and the agent with the gun holstered his weapon.

_Thank you, Steve Rogers, you big, blond, beefcake of a man._

You lowered your arms slowly, keeping your face placid and pleasant. You were all friends here, after all.

“Rumlow wasn’t sure the conditioning process had worked,” Gillespie said while wiping the sweat off his forehead with his suit sleeve. “This makes things a lot simpler, let me tell you that.”

“I’m happy to comply,” you responded succinctly. And frowned. Where had _that _come from?

It didn’t matter. The taller agent no longer saw you as a threat, his vigilant watchfulness now vanished.

_Idiot._

You stepped forward and jabbed him in the throat. He gave a strangled cry and grabbed his neck, in which you took the opportunity to grab him by the tie, yanked him forward, and kneed him hard in the nose.

He went down like a rock. Gillespie raised his radio and began to scream into it, shouting your name and a designated code that meant _rogue agent_. You yanked him by the wrist and twisted your body, throwing him over your shoulder and slamming him to the ground. He wheezed painfully but otherwise didn’t move.

As good as it felt to dismantle the two HYDRA agents, the damage had already been done. He had just made your life that much more difficult; both sides would see you as the enemy. You slammed your fist down on the table in frustration.

Unsnapping the strap from around the gun on the other agent’s belt, you took out his weapon and slipped it into the back of your jeans under the hoodie. You checked him for other weapons and found an ankle strap for a knife. You took that too, fixing it to your own ankle above your boots, the only piece of original clothing that had survived this entire horror show.

After pulling out the agent’s credentials and palming it (“Evan Collins, Level 5”), you opened the door and checked the corridor. It was clear, and you slipped out the door strode quickly down the hallway. The STRIKE hoodie felt like a painted target on your back, it was quite literally one thanks to Cap, but it obscured the gun in your waistband.

The first thing you needed to do was find Captain Rogers. To make that announcement, he would have had to be in the communications tower, a separate building from HQ. It would take a few minutes through the underground walkway to reach, but it was a start.

You reached the bank of elevators but before you hit the call button you saw a crowd of people gathered at the window. Cautiously you made your way toward the group, eyeing them for any obvious weapons, but they were all wearing suits or pencil skirts. Office agents most likely, but you were still careful as you approached the window.

You sucked in a hard breath at the sight before you. It was hard to believe or even make sense of, but three sections of the Potomac were opening as if they were very giant cellar doors. When you saw what was rising out of them, your heart plummeted deep into your ribcage.

They looked like aerial aircraft carriers, massive and long enough so that jets had enough runway to take off and land. You had been on the Helicarrier during the Battle for New York, so you knew the raw power of one of those aircraft.

One was enough to defend a city against an alien invasion. Three was overkill.

It was time for a new plan. You turned away from the sight of the insidious launch and raced to the stairwell, shoving the door open and running down the steps without pause. It was too late to find Rogers, but you knew where he was headed: the same place you were going.

It took you less than a minute at a full run to make it to the Quinjet landing pads. It was pure chaos on the tarmac, as those wearing pilot outfits were caught in a firefight with agents in STRIKE and Insight gear.

You had no choice but to ignore the engagement and crawl into the first open cockpit you could find, flipping on the ignition and strapping yourself into the seat.

As soon as you snapped the buckle into the catch, there was a second click next to your head. You remained perfectly still.

“Get out of the cockpit. Slowly,” the familiar voice ordered.

“Lawson,” you replied evenly. “You don’t want to do this.”

“Shut up,” he snapped. The impatience in his voice didn’t bode well. “Get out. I won’t tell you again.”

You did as he commanded, unbuckling your flight harness and carefully watching him as you pulled yourself out of the cockpit. Lawson was a mean son of a bitch, the type to pull the trigger quicker than most of your teammates, and you knew not to test his patience.

He backed down the ladder as he continued to aim his gun at you, just far enough away that you wouldn’t be able to disarm him without having to close the distance first. He may have always been an asshole but he wasn’t an idiot.

Once you were on the tarmac, he jerked his muzzle toward the ground and said, “On your knees.” By the way his beady eyes narrowed, the sadistic fuck more than enjoyed your helplessness.

“This is a mistake.” You held your hands up while eyeing him and your other teammates warily. Ely and Quinn wouldn’t be of any help to you either, too cowardly to disobey an aggressive prick like Lawson.

“Yeah?” he said with a sneer. “From where I’m standing, everything looks right. Now get on your knees like a good bitch.”

You bit back your retort on where you thought he should stick his gun, with very thorough instructions on how to do so, and slowly lowered to your knees. You entwined your fingers on your head.

“Rumlow doesn’t want me dead,” you said with the smooth confidence of a poker player with a shitty hand and a shittier opponent. You didn’t know if Rumlow wanted you alive, of course, but you were confident he hadn’t strung you along for this long just for you to die before he could gloat.

Lawson’s deep frown confirmed your suspicions.

“Maybe not,” he allowed with a tilt of his head, “but Rumlow ain’t here. He knows what a piece of work you are, though. If you somehow end up with a bullet between the eyes, he won’t be too surprised.”

You shrugged, as if you could care less. “Suit yourself, dumbass. It’s your funeral.”

The pistol flashed in the sunlight and the grip hit you hard across the cheek. Your head jerked to the side and your eyes involuntarily teared up at the burning, stinging sensation in your face.

When you turned your face toward him, an insult already on your lips, you froze when the muzzle was pressed against the center of your forehead.

“I don’t get it. I really don’t. I _never _fuckin’ understood why he had such a fuckin’ hard on for you.” There was a bitter twist on Lawson’s lips. You wondered how long he had been fantasizing about making this little speech. A while, judging by the width of his sneer.

“Mouthy cunt like you. Maybe that’s what he kept you around for.”

Lawson grabbed you by the back of your hair and wrenched your head back, causing your lips to pull apart as you gasped in pain. He pressed the muzzle of the gun into your mouth, the metal hitting your front teeth and causing a jolt of pain to go through your head.

You glared up at him, vision blurring from the pain in your cheek but also from the humiliation. The helpless rage. Being weak and vulnerable and unable to fight back. It took you back to your cell, to the white room.

You couldn’t move.

“That’s more like it,” Lawson leered, ugly and toothy. “Takes orders well, doesn’t she? Always has. The commander ever take you home to see how well you can follow orders? Bet he does. Bet he has you trained _real good.” _

You wanted to shove the heel of your hand into his balls. Jab your knuckles into the kneecap. Bring the weapon around your ankle and jam it into an eye so his death is imminent but slow.

But you couldn’t _move._ The blurriness of your vision was worsening.

_What’s wrong with me_. _Why can’t I move why can’t I move why can’t I—_

Something silver flashing in the sunlight. Ely was hit, hard, right in the side of his head.

Quinn brought up his gun and fired, but the bullet sparked and ricocheted back, hitting him directly in the chest.

Lawson yanked the gun out of your mouth and turned. Bucky slammed his foot into his chest and sent him flying into the wing blades of an idle Quinjet.

The engine caught fire and exploded, the brief orange flash lighting Bucky’s features. His eyes were glacial, his lips pressed into a menacing scowl. His silver arm was gleaming and deadly, his body covered in the intimidating tactical armor.

You knew him, this man. The assassin without mercy.

And then his eyes fell on you, his features softened and his brows creased in worry.

You exhaled in shaky relief.

He bent down and took you gently by the arm, helped lift you to your feet. You almost collapsed when your wobbly legs refused to cooperate, but he held firm as stone like always.

The strange paralysis that had wrapped your body in a cocoon of dread was broken. Your eyes no longer burned, you felt grounded and safe by the hands that held you steady.

Bucky didn’t speak, but his meaning was clear enough as he very carefully brushed his finger under the swelling of your cheek, his usually bright eyes darkened. You flushed under the intense gaze, more affected by his concern than of having the muzzle of a gun planted against your forehead.

“I’m okay.” You frowned as you really got a look at him for the first time, noting he had returned to his old tac gear. “I also remember telling you to stay at the safe house.”

His brows rose and you thought you spied amusement somewhere along the angle of his lips.

“You… thought I would leave you to deal with a high-level HYDRA operative alone? Especially one with a personal stake in recruiting you?”

“I can handle myself,” you grumbled as you looked away.

“Clearly,” he responded, taking in the scenery of destruction around them.

You gawked.

“_I_ didn’t do any of this—“

You stopped talking when you saw the twitch at the corner of his mouth.

_Oh, no, he’s trying to make jokes,_ you thought faintly.

“Okay, wiseass,” you frowned up at him, “want to tell me how you plan to stop the Helicarriers?”

In response to your question, he looked upwards at the mammoth aircraft slowly ascending into the sky. With those mechanical beasts in the air, there would be no way to recall them without going through heavy resistance in the control hub.

He turned back to you, his eyes darting between you and the Quinjet with a growing frown.

“Were you going to attack three Helicarriers head–on… with a Quinjet?”

“No!” you protested a little too loudly. His brows rose again, and now your cheeks were on fire. “I was going to take a Quinjet, land on one of the Helicarriers, fight my way to the controls, and try to disable it. Maybe turn it against the others. And if not… well…”

You cleared your throat.

“I figured it couldn’t be that difficult to crash an aircraft I wasn’t trained to pilot.”

Bucky stared at you so hard you felt like you skin might catch fire.

“Your plans are terrible.”

You opened your mouth, gaped like a fish, and then prepared to tell him how fucking _wonderful _your plans were thankyouverymuch—but then you blinked and looked over his shoulder. Something was flying through the air, a kind of aerial wing-glider but one that glinted like metal.

It turned in your direction, and opened fire.

_“Bucky!—“_

He was already moving; his right arm wrapped around you as his left curled upward, shielding you both from the spray of bullets impacting the tarmac all around you.

The flying glider shot past overhead, and you saw it was actually a man with mechanical wings being propelled by a rocket pack. Not the _weirdest_ thing you’d ever seen, but it was up there.

Bucky practically picked you up with one arm and bodily hauled you behind the smoldering wing of the destroyed Quinjet. Before he set you down you were already pulling out your pistol, aiming it around the containers in hopes of a clear shot at the winged man, betting his armor had to be light for him to be agile while airborne.

Bucky grabbed the muzzle of your gun and pushed it downward.

“He’s not HYDRA,” he explained with a slight wince. “He’s with Rogers.”

You blinked and shifted your gaze back to the sky. “How do you know?”

“Because he was there when I was sent to kill Rogers and Romanoff.”

He was frowning and wouldn’t quite meet your eye when you looked back down at him.

“…oh. So, he thinks you’re still following orders.” You frowned and looked down at your STRIKE hoodie, plucking at the logo emblazoned on the front. “This isn’t helping, either. Shit.”

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and turned the gun around and handed it out to Bucky. When he didn’t take the gun, you opened your eyes and found him staring hard at you.

“What are you doing?”

If you had been in a less dire situation, you might have smiled. He sounded genuinely confused, his brows folded in concern. It was something you wouldn’t have thought possible three days ago, and it further convinced you this was the right course of action.

“Just… trust me.”

His jaw flexed as he no doubt prepared himself to argue. You cut him off with a shake of your head and said, “No more commentary about my _terrible plans.”_

You took his normal hand and slapped the gun into his palm. Before he could realize what you were doing, you stepped out behind the wing and raised your hands to show you were unarmed.

You heard a curse to your left and turned your head to see Bucky getting to his feet. Before he could follow you, which is clearly what he was going to do, you heard the whine of a jetpack and you turned as the winged man touch down a dozen feet ahead. He kept his machine pistols trained on you, his eyes obscured behind his red goggles.

“Start talking,” he ordered bluntly. “Because I got a few things to say to your buddy and I won’t be using my words.”

You glanced at Bucky to find he was glaring blue fire at the man. You had a distinct feeling he was angrier over the fact guns were being pointed at you rather than the fact he was being threatened. It was kinda sweet, in a super messed up sort of way.

To your surprise, Bucky returned his eyes on you, as if waiting for…

_Oh_. _He’s waiting for orders._

The realization made your stomach twist in an almost sickening way. Was he listening because he trusted you, or because he was so used to being controlled by others?

You could worry about it later; for now, you just wanted him to remain safe. You slightly shook your head, indicating you wanted him to stand down. His eyes narrowed but he remained behind the damaged wing and out of the range of fire of the man’s guns.

Satisfied, you turned back to the man you hoped was Roger’s ally.

“My name is Agent Williams and I’m a member of STRIKE,” you shouted to be heard over the sound of engines and gunfire. “A few days ago, I was taken by HYDRA. This man helped me escaped. I would be dead, or worse, if he hadn’t intervened.”

He remained silent. You didn’t need to see his eyes behind the goggles to know he was staring at you with profound judgement.

“We’re on your side!” you insisted with a desperate sweep of your hands.

“Are you serious?” He pointed one of his pistols at the wing Bucky was hiding behind, slightly jabbing his weapon. “Do you know what he’s _done?”_

“He had no control over his actions.” You tried to keep your words even but it was difficult when every fiber of your being wanted to kill the people who had done this to Bucky.

You got an idea. “I can prove it.”

“Nu-uh,” he warned when you started to reach down toward your pocket. Both pistols were trained on you now. “Get those hands up.”

“I’m just reaching for a piece of paper in my pocket,” you said in a more reasonable tone. “If I pull out a weapon, feel free to shoot me.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice.”

You didn’t look in Bucky’s direction, silently praying he stayed put while you carefully reached down, dipping your fingers into your pocket. You pulled out the folded pamphlet you had taken from the historical memorial. Slowly unfolding it, you opened the paper to the page that displayed Bucky’s picture.

“His name is James Buchanan Barnes.” You raised your voice so Bucky could hear as well. “He was friends with Steve Rogers, the man we want to help. Tell him... Bucky is starting to remember.”

Bucky was now emerging from behind the crates. Your shoulders tensed and you glanced toward the winged man, but he only gave Bucky a half-nervous, half-annoyed look. Bucky ignored him completely; he walked over to you and stared down at the paper in your hands. You held it out to him, watching him closely, and he took the pamphlet as gently as if it were made of glass.

The winged man put one of his pistols away and trained the other at the ground, his stance taut as a wire as he activated the comm in his ear. You took it as a hopeful sign, and took the offered moment to watch Bucky’s face as his eyes scanned the page, his eyes growing rounder with each sentence.

“You were right about your name,” you said in a soft voice.

“This…” He seemed at a loss for words. “This was me.”

“It still is,” you insisted. You wanted to take Bucky’s hand, squeeze it to tell him it would all be okay, but you let your hand fall to your side. “HYDRA couldn’t take everything from you. They couldn’t erase you, not completely. _This_ is the kind of man you are, Bucky. One who puts others before himself.”

His gaze rose to meet yours, his blue eyes glassy and so beautifully breakable from the fragile hope within them. He wanted to believe, you could see it, but there was fear there too in the way his lips slightly trembled.

It twisted something inside you, and you were about to reach out and touch him when you caught sight of the winged man out of the corner of your vision. He was approaching you both, and when he was a couple feet away he stopped and sighed heavily.

“This is against my better judgement, but that’s nothing new,” he grumbled as he held out two ear comms. You glanced up at Bucky, who seemed equally surprised at the turn of events, but you took the comm without delay.

“We gotta replace the targeting modules on all three Helicarriers,” he said. He pointed to the aircraft as he spoke. “Cap’s already on that one, I can get the other. We’ll converge on the third, that one right there, if you can clear it for us. If you can insert this targeting chip before we get there, all the better. Is that something you’re both willing to do?”

He had pulled out a fairly large microchip and held it out.

“Yes,” Bucky said without hesitation, taking it before you could.

The man looked at you, and you gave him a nod, glancing at Bucky. “We got it.”

“All right, then.” He backed away and said, “The name’s Sam Wilson, and you better remember it ‘cuz we’re gonna all have a _real_ cozy discussion after this. _If _we survive.”

Then he turned and kicked off the ground as easy as you please, his jetpack igniting as the metal wings unfolded from his back, hurling him into the air in a graceful arch that would put birds to shame.

_“Damn.” _You weren’t sure if you were impressed or envious. “Where can I get one of those.”

When Bucky failed to respond, you turned your head and said, “How do you think we should—“

A blast of hot air whipped your hair forward. You whirled around to find the Quinjet you were going to steal had been commandeered by none other than Bucky.

As he rose into the air, he glanced out the cockpit window at you, his expression grim but determined.

You jabbed your finger into your ear comm, depressed the button, and yelled, “Bucky, for fuck’s sake!” You knew you shouldn’t have let him take the chip. You should have seen this coming.

_“I’m not going to let them hurt you again.”_ His low voice spoke to you over the channel. _“You’ve done enough. It’s my turn to try and fix this.”_

You opened your mouth to give him a piece of your mind, leaving you behind when that was _not _what you wanted, but you paused when you heard a familiar voice quietly say, _“Bucky?”_

He didn’t respond at first, probably more shocked at hearing Rogers’ voice than you were. When Bucky finally spoke, his voice was hesitant and almost timid.

_“I… I think so. I don’t remember very well.”_

_“That’s okay,”_ Rogers responded quickly. You could hear the warmth in his tone even over the tinny quality of the comms. _“You will.”_

_“Shoot now, chat later!”_ Sam Wilson burst through the line sounding harried. _“We can’t let the STRIKE team get to those Quinjets!”_

_“I’ll handle it.” _You saw Bucky’s Quinjet turning in the air, hovering above the launch bays. _“Head for some cover, Agent Williams.”_

Despite the soft way he spoke your name, your feathers were still singed. He didn’t want you to get hurt, but didn’t he realize you had the exact same fear for him? The idea of him being hurt, or worse, recaptured…

“Fine,” you spat out. The rage that had been building for the last hour had become an unbearable pressure in your chest, and you knew just the perfect outlet. “I’m going after Rumlow.”

_“Wait.”_ Bucky’s voice sounded small and panicked in your ear. _“Wait, no.”_

You were already running back to the row of offices that would return you to the main building, pushing through to the inside where desk agents were trying to flee out the emergency exits. It was even more pandemonium before, paperwork scattered all over the floor, upturned office chairs, and spilled cups of abandoned coffee.

“You have your mission, I have mine.” You internally winced, hating the shortness in your voice. You didn’t want those to be your parting words, either.

“Go save the world, Sergeant,” you added with a small, prideful smile.

_“I… You too, Agent.”_ His words sounded flustered and you could just imagine the flush on his cheeks.

It wasn’t a terrible image for you to have tucked away as you faced what could be the last moments of your life. Even if you didn’t survive this, you knew he would succeed in stopping the launch.

Bucky had already been a hero in a previous life. You knew he could be one again.

_“Move! _Out of the way!”

Weaving and ducking through panicked agents, shouting at the ones who seemed too dazed to flee, was an obstacle in and of itself, but you finally made it back to the main building.

At least the others were having more luck than you. Bucky had already intervened and saved Sam Wilson from a Quinjet chasing him. Wilson had managed to get the Bravo lock in place after that, and Rogers wasn’t far behind with the Alpha lock.

But when it was Bucky’s turn to report in on the third Helicarrier, his response was tense and distracted. _“I’m onboard. The Quinjet was destroyed, so I’ll need a new exit strategy.” _There was silence on the line for several more seconds, and then he added, _“I’m heading to the control hub now. But HYDRA figured out what we’re doing and they’re going to do everything they can to protect the carriers.”_

_“We’ll come to you!”_ Rogers yelled in response. A second later, it was your turn to yell over the comms as bullets pockmarked the walls around your cover.

“I’m gonna need some help!” You tried to stay calm but you knew you sounded winded and strained. You were pinned down in the lobby, the remainder of the STRIKE team not letting you take a step forward. “It’s me against twenty guys in here!”

_“On my way!”_ Wilson yelled immediately. Barely ten seconds later, you heard bullets shattering the upper glass of the mezzanine, and Wilson burst through the opening he had made and laid down cover fire. _“I got you!”_

Relief flooded your limbs as you rounded the corner and ran up the stairs to the next level. From there, the two of you made short work of what was left of your teammates.

_Don’t think about it,_ you thought as you picked up a fresh pistol from one of the bodies. _They’re HYDRA. They’re the enemy. Don’t think about it._

_“Rumlow is headed for the Council,”_ a new voice spoke in your ear, pulling you from your dark thoughts.

“Where is he now?” you responded promptly. Her voice was familiar but you couldn’t place it.

_“Headed up the stairs. Approaching level forty. You can head him off at forty-one.”_

“He’s mine,” you proclaimed as you turned away from the grisly scene in the lobby toward the elevators.

_“Then I’ll head up to Fury and Romanoff,”_ Wilson responded, flying out of the broken glass wall and aiming upwards to the top of the Triskelion.

“Fury?” you asked, nearly tripping over your own feet. “Did you just say _Fury?_ He’s alive?”

_“Yeah, he’s alive,”_ Wilson responded. _“Long story.”_

“And I want to hear it.” All you could think about was that you hoped Bucky could hear your conversation and know he wasn’t responsible for killing the Director.

_“Later,”_ Wilson said with a hint of a smile. _“How about over some beers?”_

You weren’t sure if you should be offended or amused.

“You were willing to shoot me five minutes ago,” you responded dourly.

_“And I think we’ve really grown as people since then.”_

You rolled your eyes and headed for the elevator banks, glad they were still operational as you got inside and pressed 41.

As you waited, the identity of the new voice finally clicked in your head.

“Is that you, Agent Hill?”

_“Yep,”_ she said in her characteristically curt way. _“I’m relieved to see you’re with us and not on team HYDRA.”_

“Yeah,” you agreed quietly. “Me too.”

The elevator rose, and you couldn’t help but look out at the view through the glass. The three Helicarriers sat in the air like massive, bloated eagles, hovering over their unknowing prey.

_“Bucky, where are you?”_ Rogers spoke in your ear. His voice was loaded with tension. Your heart began to race.

_“I’m almost… to the bridge. Ran into some more resistance.”_

“What’s wrong?” you quickly asked. There was something off in his voice and the hairs on your nape stood up. “Is it your injuries? I told you it was too soon. Goddamnit, Bucky.”

_“They’re fine,”_ he said. His voice was too rough for that to be true. _“Almost there.”_

Rogers wasn’t buying his bravado either. _“Wait,”_ he interjected, _“I can catch up to you. We can do it together.”_

_“Not enough time.” _The resignation in his voice, the way it was accepting rather than bitter, made something crack in your chest. This couldn’t be happening.

_“Hey, man,”_ Wilson said in a subdued tone. _“No need for any of that. We can all get out of this alive.”_

_“The mission is what matters.”_

He sounded too much like the man you had first met for your liking.

You looked up at the last Helicarrier, wishing you had gone with him. No, you _could_ have gone with him if you had refused to leave the landing pad and grabbed your own Quinjet. Instead, you had shot off after Rumlow, thinking of revenge and payback.

_“Damnit, Buck, just wait!”_ Rogers shouted. He sounded more panicked than angry. _“I’m not going to lose you again!”_

_“I have to make this right,”_ was all Bucky said.

You wanted to cry in frustration or maybe punch something.

Instead, you nearly got your face shot off as you rounded the corner. You had been so distracted you’d failed to check around it first, and a bullet bit into the plaster inches from your nose. You shot backwards behind the wall as a voice called out:

“Is that you, kid!”

Rage boiled in your gut. You lifted a finger and turned off your ear comm. You couldn’t afford distractions right now.

You aimed the pistol around the corner and fired toward Rumlow’s voice. To your disappointment, you didn’t hear any cries or screams of pain indicating you had landed a shot.

Instead, you heard him laugh.

“Yeah. Thought so.”


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He would always be a weapon, but he wouldn't be _their_ weapon. At least, Bucky had something to fight for, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last Bucky POV chapter for part 1! Hope you enjoy. Please feel free to scream at me in the comments or my [blog](https://trashmenofmarvel.tumblr.com). :)
> 
> I have a couple other Halloween-themed Bucky/Reader fics I posted recently, so check those out if you haven't yet! Love y'all.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Violence, death, blood, self-dehumanization

Bucky dragged himself out of the flaming wreckage that used to be the Quinjet he’d been piloting. Black smoke trailed from the ignited engines, obscuring his vision and making his lungs twinge with agitation.

For once, he wished he had that smothering muzzle HYDRA had forced him to wear.

As soon as his boots hit the Helicarrier runway, Insight crewmembers began to fire on him. Word must have spread he was no longer on their side. Bucky ducked back behind the smoldering Quinjet and pulled the grenade launcher from his back.

He slipped out from behind cover and fired, causing the huddled agents to disappear in a shockwave of force. It was all too easy to slip back into the other part of him. The one that killed and maimed and destroyed, all for the mission.

The mission might have changed. His tactics had not.

The airstrip was cleared of enemies before he had even emptied his clip. The smell of blood and gunpowder should have turned his stomach with disgust. The screams of the dying should have horrified him. He knew these were the normal responses, but he felt nothing, his mind singularly focused on his goal.

The weapon that HYDRA had created was still close to the surface, and he would use it to his advantage.

_“Alpha lock,”_ Rogers said over the comm channel. Wilson had already taken care of the Bravo lock. Bucky had blown a hole into the side of the bridge dome to give him access right after he had shot down the Quinjet chasing the flyer.

Bucky had felt an unexpected surge of satisfaction from being able to help his new comrades, especially when Wilson had yelled, _“Thanks, man! You’re all right.” _High praise considering the last time they’d met, Bucky had ripped the steering column out of his car and Wilson had dive-bombed him with a boot across the head.

Bucky knew he was far from redemption, but he was grateful he had the opportunity to undo some of the damage he had wrought. The last targeting module was up to him, and the sooner he set it in place, the sooner the Helicarriers could be destroyed. Only then would Williams would be safe; Bucky had no doubt she would be on Project Insight’s assassination list, or soon would be if HYDRA decided she wasn’t worth the effort to recapture.

_“Charlie carrier is the last one left,”_ he heard an unfamiliar voice say in his earpiece. _“Six minutes.”_

“I’m onboard,” Bucky informed the woman, assuming she was an ally of Rogers’. “The Quinjet was destroyed, so I’ll need a new exit strategy.”

Bucky ducked back out of a doorway as bullets rang off the metal next to his head. He pulled a grenade from the back of his belt and tossed it inside. The resounded explosion silenced the gunfire.

He kept moving.

“I’m heading to the control hub now. But HYDRA figured out what we’re doing and they’re going to do everything they can to protect the carriers.”

_“We’ll come to you!”_ Rogers yelled, sounding as if he was in the middle of a fight himself. Bucky didn’t think he would make it in time, but that didn’t worry him. He would have the targeting module inserted within six minutes. That’s what mattered, not Bucky’s extraction plan.

_“I’m gonna need some help!”_

Williams’ voice in his ear, frayed and on the edge of panic, broke his steady stride. His singular focused slip and he came to a standstill, torn between two directives.

The mission or his S.H.I.E.L.D. agent.

_“On my way!”_ Samuel Wilson yelled in return. _“I got you!”_

Bucky released a held breath. Gunfire erupted. He blinked, too slow to step aside, and several rounds hit him in the torso.

Grunting, Bucky pulled up his carbine and shot the STRIKE member in the neck. Before he hit the ground Bucky shot another in the chest, and then another in the head. He cleared out the entire front entryway before stopping to assess the damage, leaning against the wall and lifting up the edge of his vest.

The tac suit had deflected the small caliber ammunition, but he could feel tacky blood under the vest from where the bullet impacts had ripped open his old gunshot wounds. Even now, he could see it start to seep out from under the thick fiber. She was going to be pissed at him.

A small smile curled on his lips. His agent had different shades of anger for different circumstances, and there was one in particular that made him feel, well…_ something_. It was the one where she wore the mask of stern annoyance to hide her concern. He had first seen it in the prison yard when she had been trying to protect him. To save him. It had pulled at a thread within him, unraveling a tight coil around his mind. His thoughts had come easier after that.

She had done that for him, and now he was stuck on the carrier, unable to protect her. Bucky listened at the banter exchanged between his agent and Wilson. It came easily, friendly almost, and his throat felt oddly tight. He had a strange feeling, like he was looking in from the outside at something he could never have himself.

Bucky forced himself to focus and brought his mind back to the present. He held his hand to his side and pressed down, hoping to stop the bleeding before it leaked down his pants again. The last thing he needed was to slip in a pool of his own blood at a crucial moment.

_“Bucky, where are you?” _Rogers, again.

He pushed off from the wall and grunted at the pain that flared throughout his left side. He had to keep moving.

“I’m almost… to the bridge.” Bucky winced as he reached over his shoulder and pulled the machine pistol from the harness on his back. He discarded the rifle, nearly out of ammo. “Ran into some more resistance.”

_“What’s wrong?”_ she asked immediately. _“Is it your injuries? I told you it was too soon.”_

He pressed his lips together. She was too observant for her own good.

_“Goddamnit, Bucky.”_

He opened his mouth to respond but kept silent, wincing as he felt the surgical glue on his leg wound break apart. Warm blood trickled down his outer thigh, doing exactly what he had feared would happen.

“They’re fine,” he said with a tightening jaw. He didn’t enjoy lying to her, though he did like the way she was concerned over him. He was stronger, faster, and could take a lot of damage that could easily kill her, and yet she was constantly trying to put herself between him and the threats, as if she was invincible and he was the breakable one.

He didn’t know what the feeling was, but it made his chest warm and his stomach tingle strangely. It was also distracting, and he made an effort to ignore the responses of his body. Distractions led to failure, he knew that.

“Almost there,” he announced. The bridge was straight ahead and he had a clear shot.

_“Wait,”_ Rogers protested, _“I can catch up to you. We can do it together.”_

“Not enough time.” He didn’t see a point in denying it. Why were they so concerned with meeting him at the last target? Did they think he couldn’t do it on his own? No, more likely, they didn’t think he could really be trusted with such an important mission. He couldn’t blame them, not after everything he’d done.

_“Hey, man,”_ Wilson responded in a low tone. _“No need for any of that. We can all get out of this alive.”_

Bucky didn’t respond. His status at the end of the mission was irrelevant as long as he completed the objective. He walked forward into the glass dome.

On the catwalk his boots caused the metal to creak and jolt to announce his presence. Three STRIKE members were waiting behind the control console, but he was ready for them. As they fired on him, he brought up his metal arm and deflected the bullets, sending them ricocheting across the room.

Bucky didn’t fire on them—he couldn’t without risking damage to the control hub. So he stalked forward at a rapid pace, keeping up his arm as a shield.

They had nowhere to go, trapped in the center of the glass dome, and once he rounded the corner he fired on them. Point blank range. He kicked aside the first body and pistol-whipped the second soldier. He grabbed him with his metal arm and spun him around, holding him as a living shield when the third soldier fired. The bullets impacted his teammate’s body, and Bucky threw him forward, hard enough to force them both off the platform.

Bucky peered down, saw the third man broken but still moving, lying against the glass dome as blood pooled around him.

He pointed the pistol downward and fired two shots. The man stopped moving.

“The mission is what matters,” Bucky replied in a flat tone. He felt unusually cold.

_“Damnit, Buck, just wait!”_ Rogers shouted. _“I’m not going to lose you again!”_

“I have to make this right.”

He would. Bucky owed it to her. He knew he should have been doing it for the people he hurt and the lives he took, but he couldn’t feel them yet. There was no impact from the things he was beginning to remember having done under orders. Maybe that would change, but for now, all he wanted to do was protect her. Act like the person she thought he was.

The war hero in the pamphlet.

Bucky turned toward the center console.

_“One minute,”_ announced the woman, Agent Hill, over his comm. He had to do it now.

Bucky pressed the button to lower the chip carousel. He pulled and tossed the old one and reached into the padded pouch on his belt.

Two shots rang out at the same instance he felt brutal impacts slam into his back. High caliber ammunition. They had gone through this time.

His hands dropped to his sides and he pulled out the dual pistols, spinning around and slamming his back into the console as he fired. The STRIKE soldier in front fell sideways off the railing, his heavy rifle going with him. The crewmembers behind him were exposed, barely a threat even as they raised their pistols towards him. The Insight pilots weren’t well-trained or disciplined like STRIKE—they had crowded onto the catwalk in a line, setting them up to be taken down with the ease of a carnival game. He cleared out all five of them before they could fire another shot.

Once the last of the enemy had fallen, Bucky’s footing slipped and he sagged to the ground. He reached back to the pouch, his breaths harsh and uneven. The pain was enormous and difficult to compartmentalize. He knew that was a bad sign.

Bucky wasn’t getting out of here, but he would complete the mission.

_“Thirty seconds!” _Hill shouted.

He dragged himself up the console, struggling to breathe through the throbbing agony of his back. Bucky caught the edge with his right hand but his fingers lost their grip on the edge, slippery with his own blood. He snarled and replaced his right hand with his left, hooking the metal fingers in. He pulled himself up, the servos in his arm whirring at the strain of lifting his dead weight.

Bucky reached into the pouch. Grabbed the chip in his blood-slicked fingers. Raised it. And inserted it into place.

“Charlie… lock,” he gasped. Bucky stumbled as his legs lost strength and he sunk back down onto the metal platform.

_“Okay, get out of there,”_ Hill instructed him. Even over the comm he could hear how tense she was. It must have been close.

“Fire,” Bucky said. Each drawn breath was shallow, the back of his head against the cool metal soothing through the heat along his spine.

_“But you’re not clear—“_

“Do it now.”

She didn’t respond, but she didn’t need to. He knew she would do what had to be done. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents were capable, more so than he ever could have anticipated. Fortunately, HYDRA had underestimated them as well, and it would ultimately lead to their downfall.

“Agent… Williams.” He spoke her name with a slight quiver. He wanted to say… something. He wasn’t sure what. He just needed to hear her voice while there was still time.

The voice that finally responded wasn’t hers. It was Hill’s.

_“She turned off her earpiece.”_

Fear roiled through his gut like a wave.

“Rumlow.” He paused to gasp for air, gritting out the words. “One of you must get to her. She_ cannot_ fall into HYDRA hands again! _Please!”_

Wilson cursed loudly._ “I shouldn’t have let her go alone. Shit, _shit!_ Okay. I’m flying around the building now, but I don’t see her yet.”_

Bucky closed his eyes, forcing down the lump in his throat. _If Rumlow got to her… _The bastard must have known what the Director had planned for Williams. Bucky felt a tide of fear followed by revulsion and disgust. The things HYDRA had planned for her, for both of them—

He opened his eyes as he heard heavy footsteps jogging onto the catwalk. He looked up and blinked several times, disbelieving. Steve Rogers stood across from him, his blue eyes wide as he took in Bucky’s position on the floor.

“Buck,” Rogers said in a soft, almost inaudible whisper. Bucky heard it, even over the sound of the engines and machinery, and it filled him with an emotion he couldn’t identify. He had heard the term _bittersweet_ somewhere. It felt how that would taste. Sadness and joy.

Rogers gave a frantic shout of “Buck, _hold on!”_ and bolted towards him, grabbing onto the railing to leap over the bodies piled on the walkway.

He got halfway across the catwalk when the carrier gave a hard shudder as Bucky heard the impact of long-range cannons. The walkway shifted and violently broke in half.

Rogers grabbed on to the railing as his feet went out from under him, but Bucky didn’t have a chance. He scrambled for purchase, his titanium fingers digging grooves into the metal flooring, but the platform tipped downward and he slid toward acrid smoke and raging fire.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader demands answers from Rumlow. What she finds is worse than she could have imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally here! The big Rumlow fight! As always, scream at me if you need to.
> 
> Chapter Warnings: Violence, blood, references to past sexual abuse, general Hydra creepiness

_ _

_Step three: Once the highest threat is identified, eliminate it._

You rounded the corner and pulled the trigger over and over, giving Rumlow zero opportunity to return fire. You charged forward and quickly took cover behind a desk to your right; wood and glass dividers shattered above your head from bullet impacts.

On your knees, you shot around the corner of the desk in his direction, pulling back when you saw movement from his side. Even with the fresh pistol, you soon ran out of ammunition, but so did he. Once silence filled the room, Rumlow shouted.

“You’re out!”

“So are you!” you yelled back.

He chuckled. “That’s my girl.”

You saw red. The hurt, the betrayal, all of it flowed into your spine, and all you could imagine was Rumlow’s body at your feet.

_“No! _You don’t get to say that! You betrayed S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

“We are S.H.I.E.L.D.,” he responded in an amused tone.

“Then you betrayed our team! You betrayed _me_.”

Your voice shook from the force of your anger, and that was fine. What you hated was how easily the hurt bled into your words. You didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing how deep his betrayal had wounded you. Because it hurt fucking _bad._

“This isn’t what I wanted.” There was a pause in which you thought you heard Rumlow sigh. “You were supposed to be with us by now.”

Your vision blurred and you blinked away the tears, refusing to shed them on his account.

“Did you do it?” You wanted him to say no, even now. “Did you order the hit on the convoy?”

His voice drifted over to you from across the room, and for a moment, he was your commander again. You could almost see him in your mind’s eye, pacing in front of the team with his hands clasped behind his back as he gave a mission briefing.

“Kartal was working for us. Or he was, until he got cold feet, or a conscience, or whatever the fuck. Pierce couldn’t have him going to the feds, though, could he? And I needed to weed out the weaker members of the team who I knew wouldn’t make the cut. More importantly, I made sure you were kept alive. I had you spared, Williams, because I knew you’d come around. With some persuasion.”

Your stomach roiled and your throat burned.

“I will_ never_ be a part of HYDRA,” you spit out.

“Kid,” he laughed, “haven’t you been paying attention? You’ve been HYDRA all along. You just didn’t know it.”

You couldn’t listen to one more word or you would scream. You pushed off from the desk you had been sitting against and stepped out into full view.

Maybe he heard you, or maybe he just knew you that well, because Rumlow did the same. He pulled the combat knife from his belt, twirling it between his fingers, his voice almost sympathetic. “It’s not too late, you know. Pierce wasn’t lying when he said he was impressed.”

Another twirl of his fingers, his smile just as razor sharp.

“Of course, he doesn’t know how sentimental you get. You’re a scrappy little shit, like a mongrel that just won’t die no matter how often it’s kicked and starved. First I thought it was really fuckin’ sad, but then I saw the one thing no one else did. Your _potential._”

You tried not to react—failed—and your frown turned into a grimace. Rumlow’s smile widened to a grin.

“But in order to get there, you had to have the softness beaten outta ya. So I toughened you up, cut off all the baby fat. You gonna resent me for that, kid? After all I’ve done for you, you’re gonna turn this around and pretend I didn’t make you the best damn agent since Romanoff?”

His grin faded and dark clouds gathered over his eyes.

“You fuckin’ owe me everything, _girl.”_

Something within you broke, and you launched yourself at him before you could rethink your strategy. Your ferocity caught him by surprise; he nearly dropped the knife when you kicked at his arm. Rumlow held tight to his weapon and moved backwards, dodging out of range of your attacks.

You knew what he was doing, drawing you out and trying to exhaust you. The only way to counteract that was to close the distance, but then there was the knife to consider.

You picked up a filled three-inch binder from a desk, charged at him, and used the book to shield and deflect the slash of his knife.

It was no vibranium shield, but it worked; you got close enough to kick him hard in the gut. Rumlow rolled backward and stopped at a crouch, slowly standing up as he wiped the blood from his torn lip. His expression wasn’t so controlled now—there was real anger there.

“Pierce had such high hopes for you. You were gonna be our golden goose. HYDRA’s greatest project in history, until the asset went fucking nuclear and killed everyone on the goddamn medical team.”

_The asset._ The phrase stuck in your throat, tarry and sick and foul.

“What did you do to him?” you asked hoarsely.

Rumlow raised his knife again, readying himself for another round. You didn’t think he was going to answer, until he did.

“Same thing we were gonna do to you,” he said with a smirk. “Pump you full of super soldier serum—a special Soviet blend—and break your mind into itty-bitty pieces.” His smirk faded into a frown. “But then _he_ fucked it all to hell, and we still don’t know why.”

He lunged.

You had been so shocked by his words you didn’t react in time. You managed to deflect his knife once before he slung his arm around your neck and pivoted you around, slamming you against his chest.

You wheezed, barely able to breathe as he held the knife in front of your face.

“How’d you do it, huh? How’d you get inside his head?” His warm breath hit your ear and you tried to twist away, but he held you in an unbreakable vice. “The asset was compliant one day, batshit crazy the next. Pierce was gonna wipe him that night, you know. Said you were a goddamn nuisance, a _distraction_. Some fuckin’ bullshit that was, weapons don’t _get _distracted. They have a purpose. They get used. And boy, did we use that fucker until he couldn’t be used anymore.”

Icicles trickled down your spine. Your mind couldn’t grasp the meaning of his words, wouldn’t grasp it.

“He killed the doctors, the technicians, almost everyone in the prison. I expected they’d find your body in a ditch somewhere, battered and broken, but there you were at the safe house, alive and whole. So, how’d you do it? How’d you take control?”

Rumlow’s warm breath hit the side of your face and you turned away, wincing. You struggled again but he had you trapped, helpless to do anything but listen to the horrible things he was saying.

“The guys on duty _did_ say he visited your cell a few times. Is that why he’s outside right now, tryin’ to help Cap? You _femme fatale’d_ him into obedience?”

You said nothing, baring your teeth and trying to pull his arm off your neck. It was pointless, given that the limb was almost pure, corded muscle.

Rumlow gave a bark of sharp laughter so sudden it startled you.

“Or… no. No, you didn’t do anything to him at all. It’s what he did to_ you_.” Another laugh, delighted in a way that made your stomach twist. You said nothing, more focused on clawing at his arm then entertaining his nasty accusations. He ignored your struggles, you wondered if he could even feel the bite of your blunted nails.

_“Shit,_ I didn’t know he had it in him,” he continued on, grating. “Christ. If you had any idea what Pierce had in store for you two, you’d realize how fuckin’ ironic that is. He got his dick wet and they didn’t even have to order him to do it. I mean… shit. That’s all sorts of perverted—“

You slammed your elbow back into his ribs and felt a satisfying _crack_. He howled in pain but somehow still held on as he stumbled backward, his grip even tighter now around your neck.

You wanted to cover your ears or scream or do _something._ Anything to make him stop.

And still he kept _fucking talking._

“Yeah, got under your skin, didn’t I?” he growled through his staggered, labored breaths. “Not that it matters. The asset ain’t gonna remember you once we get our hands on him again. I can’t tell you how many times his brain has been scrambled. It’s a goddamn miracle he’s not a drooling vegetable at this point.”

You would have screamed at him if you had the air for it, but Rumlow had shifted his grip and the edges of your vision were starting to recede. The world was going quiet, distant… but not enough for you to miss the sensation of Rumlow gently stroking your hair.

“You don’t gotta worry about that, kid. I won’t let any of ‘em touch you,” he murmured into your ear. “When you belong to HYDRA, I’ll take good care of you.”

He fisted your hair tight enough to make the burns on your scalp light up with electric pain. You gasped as he slightly shook his fist, tears blurring your vision.

“And then,” he murmured, low and sinuous in your ear, “you’ll finally learn some fuckin’ _gratitude.”_

The thing that took hold of your body wasn’t you. It couldn’t be, because no single person could contain that much hatred.

You grabbed his wrist and jabbed it downward. The knife sliced through your side and cut straight through your jacket and down into Rumlow’s thigh.

Rumlow’s earlier scream was tame compared to the wild noise he made now, and he released you on reflex. He also made the mistake of letting go of the knife, and you yanked it free of his leg and whirled around, slashing at his shoulder. He stumbled backwards, red flowing over his corded muscles and smooth skin like a river through a dune sea.

You coughed and gasped for breath. Your face felt like a mask, unfamiliar and tight, and you couldn’t imagine what was across its surface.

He grinned at you, a red-tinged smile from his busted lip.

You could do it, right now. End it. He was off-balance, wounded, and no matter how disciplined he was the pain would slow him down.

Adjusting the knife if your grip, stalked forward, chest heaving as your muscles bunched for the attack—

A shadow blotted out the sunlight cast through the windows. It was moving fast, alarmingly so, and you skidded to a stop when you saw what it was.

A Helicarrier hurtling out of the sky at a steep angle, directly toward you.

Without a second look at Rumlow, you dropped the knife, spun and stumbled on the smooth tiled floor, and bolted. You didn’t turn to see if he had spotted the impeding airship.

You stabbed a finger into your ear comm and shouted, _“Wilson!_ Please tell me you’re nearby!”

_“Where the hell have you been?!”_ he shouted back, sounding very put-out. _“We’ve been looking all over for you! Tell me where—“_

The impact of the Helicarrier slamming into the Triskelion was enough to make you stumble and skid across the tilting floor, and it was more than enough to give Wilson his answer.

_“Shit! You still there, Agent?”_

“Not for long!” you yelled as you somehow managed to avoid a collapsing pile of building falling from the ceiling. “Forty-first floor! Northwest corner!”

There was no time to wait for confirmation. You hurled yourself at the window and curled into a ball just before impact. The glass shattered around you, the sound drowned out by the massive airship cleaving into the side of the building.

Your stomach twisted as you free-fell through the air, the ground rushing up at an alarming rate—

Wilson appeared just below you, rolling onto his back and grabbing you as you slammed into his chest. He managed to wrap his arms around you as he flew out from under the shower of collapsing tile and glass.

“Jesus _Christ!”_ he yelled over the comm despite the fact he was also right in your ear. “Are all your S.H.I.E.L.D. agents this crazy?!”

“What happened to the Helicarriers?” you shouted, ignoring his first statement. You tried to twist your head around to look, but you couldn’t see anything but the river below. Panic rose in your throat. “Where’s Bucky?!”

Wilson banked and you gripped him tighter, feeling like a small lizard clinging to a very large bird. From your new vantage point, you saw there was only one Helicarrier still airborne, and it had been the one that had just sliced through a portion of the Triskelion and was now heading directly over the Potomac River.

_“We’re still onboard,”_ Rogers answered, sounding out of breath.

“What? _Why!”_ you cried out. “You’re heading for the river!”

_“There was… falling debris,”_ he said, voice strained. _“Bucky’s trapped. I’m digging him out.”_

_“Why are you doing this!”_ Bucky yelled over the comm. _“Leave, Rogers!”_

_“Not gonna happen, Buck,”_ Rogers responded, his voice oddly soft. _“Not without you.”_

“We have to get to them!” you shouted to Wilson.

He must have agreed because he yelled, “Hold on, man!” He held onto you tight as he tilted through the air, the wind hitting your face and making your eyes water as he picked up speed. “We’re coming!”

_“No, Sam, you gotta stay back. It’s too dangerous. This thing is falling apart around us.”_ The same resignation that had been in Bucky’s voice earlier was now in Roger’s.

“Don’t ask me to do that,” Wilson responded quickly. He sounded as anxious as you felt. He was approaching at a parallel angle to avoid the smoke and falling debris, and you could see the underside glass dome of the bridge and the damage inside.

“Move closer!” you yelled.

“I can’t!” he yelled back. “Too much shit in the air!”

_“I don’t care!”_ You shouted hard enough to crack your voice, struggling in his arms now, trying to twist around so you could see the carrier better. “Move us in!”

_“Woman!_ Knock it off or you’re gonna get us both killed!”

Despite his protests he angled his wings and banked toward the drifting carrier.

“Rogers!” you yelled into your earpiece. “We’re almost there!”

You were fifty feet away, close enough to see details inside the dome. It was a warzone, strewn with heavy crossbeams and collapsed walkways as the air filled with smoke and tongues of flame.

_“There’s no time!”_ Rogers yelled, suddenly urgent. _“You have to—“_

An explosion ripped through the back of the ship. It was so hot and expansive that the shockwave hit you and Wilson like a solid object, causing him to tumble back through the air. He gripped you tightly around the waist and all you could do was hold onto his arms as the world spun sickeningly around you.

By the time he was steady again, the Helicarrier had split in two.

All the air left your lungs. The horrific sight above you blotted out the sky with fire and falling debris.

Wilson descended and landed on the riverbank nearby. You wanted to scream at him to take you back up, that it wasn’t too late. Instead, you watched the Helicarrier fall in broken pieces into the river. Your legs gave out and you collapsed onto your knees.

“Steve?”

Wilson’s voice was shaking. Desperate and pleading.

“Steve… are you there? Come on, man… Answer me.”

You touched a trembling finger to your comm to make sure it was on.

“Bucky?” Your voice was even more broken than Wilson’s. “Bucky, say something. Please? _Bucky?”_

You were both met with the finality of silence. The only sound that floated to you on the wind was the quiet rumble of the remnants of the Helicarrier falling into the Potomac.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reader prepares to move into the new chapter of her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's time to say goodbye for now my friends. But wait, there's more.
> 
> First, the explanation behind the title. It's basically Bucky and Williams' [love song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4KC51M82Xc).
> 
> Second, I will continue the sequel here (haha you thought I was done with these two? no) so that you can keep your subscriptions and bookmarks. That way you won't lose them and I can keep going with updated tags and summaries. I'll close the fic for now as "complete" since technically this story can hold up on its own. But I've got the sequel all outlined and once I post again, I'll meet y'all back here for some Bucky/Williams shenanigans.
> 
> Third, some of y'all had some really interesting ideas for how this story would go (such as what would happen if HYDRA recaptured Bucky, or if they had succeeded in making Williams into another Winter Soldier). I love those ideas so much but it wasn't what I had planned. That being said, if anyone wants to write those AUs you are more than welcome. Make sure to tag me so I can share it, and of course, read it.
> 
> What's to come for part two: More Steve. More Sam. Tony and Nat make their debut. Williams goes after Rumlow, which goes as well as you'd expect, and Bucky may or may not save her in time (in a nutshell, we're going even darker y'all)
> 
> It will take me at least a month to write and start posting, so until then I've got some other Bucky fics up, including one with a soft demon Bucky. I've got a few one shot challenges coming up for the holidays, so be on the lookout for those too. I plan to write Bucky fics, reader and OCs, for a long time. So I hope you stick with me, especially because I'm so new to this fandom and I don't know how to deal with the upcoming show.
> 
> If you want to keep connected you can find my marvel writing blog [here](https://trashmenofmarvel.tumblr.com/). Thank you for all your comments, kudos, and messages. You are the reason I had the inspiration to write this. Now, on to the epilogue.

Steve Rogers was alive. There was still no sign of Bucky.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Wilson scoured the riverbank and found Rogers first, half-drowned but alive. And when you arrived a few minutes later, he’d pointed out a set of boot prints in the mud. They were uneven, the left print deeper than the right, as if the owner had an uneven gait.

Or, more specifically, that his left side was heavier due to a solid metal arm.

“Might wanna cover those up before the cavalry gets here,” Wilson said quietly as he kneeled next to an unconscious Steve Rogers. He didn’t have to tell you twice; you muddled the boot prints with your own, following the trail along the riverbank in a desperate bid to find Bucky at the end. Your luck didn’t hold. You lost track of him within the underbrush and trees, the muddy riverbank becoming soft, leaf-strewn grass.

The rest of the day sped by in a chaotic blur, leaving you little time to reflect. The doctors at the hospital ran a full batch of tests, including MRIs and CAT scans to make sure HYDRA’s torture wouldn’t have any lasting effects. After giving you an intravenous round of saline and antibiotics, they discharged you from the hospital. Instead of going back to your apartment, you waited in the ICU with Wilson for Rogers to wake up.

When he did, he didn’t waste any time in telling you that he knew Bucky was alive. He remembered Bucky reaching down to him and pulling out from the water.

There Steve Rogers was, lying in a hospital bed, and he was more concerned about his friend than himself. You should have never doubted him, never let Rumlow get inside your head even for a moment, but he had. You knew the shame would linger, his betrayal haunting your thoughts, staining your sense of peace for a long time.

But for now, you reached across the bed and clasped Roger’s hand. He looked up at you, surprise in his blue eyes. And then he smiled.

S.H.I.E.L.D. was gone. Your team was gone. Rumlow was, to your great regret, still alive but at least in critical condition and under heavy guard in the hospital burn unit.

Your entire life had fallen to pieces just as surely as those Helicarriers had, but you had to hope that Bucky was still alive. There was no alternative you would accept.

It hurt, though, the knowledge that he didn’t come to you for help. You thought you had gotten through to him, earned his trust. Maybe you had and he simply stayed away in a misguided attempt to keep you safe. That sounded like him, but did you really know Bucky Barnes? Did he even know himself?

You didn’t have a satisfying answer, but you still held out hope that he would appear on your doorstep one day, wishing to see those blue eyes and the way they softened when they met yours.

Your doorstep remained conspicuously absent of his presence.

The days after the Battle at the Triskelion—as it was now being dubbed by the media during the flurry of news stories that followed for weeks—were both easier and harder. Harder, because you had to start over. Easier, because it came with a sense of freedom.

Fury (just Fury, now, no longer _Director Fury_) hadn’t been killed but it had been a close call. He had allowed HYDRA to believe he was dead so he could help Rogers unhindered, and really, you shouldn’t have expected anything less from the former Director. Either way, you told him you were glad he was alive, and with a rare look of amusement he said he had “too much to do to die just yet.”

He even asked you to go to Europe with him to help root out the last vestiges of HYDRA. It was a tempting offer, but you declined, as did Rogers. Fury glanced between the two of you with a twitch of his lips, as if he knew exactly why the two of you were staying. Hell, he probably_ did_ know why.

When Tony Stark asked you to come work for him (“I don’t know how you convinced the Winter Soldier to switch sides, but someone who can piss off HYDRA that badly needs to be on my payroll. Free room and board, fastest Wi-Fi in the world—Say, you don’t mind polygraphs, do you?”), you accepted his offer. Rogers had warned you ahead of time that Iron Man himself was going to scoop you up after S.H.I.E.L.D.’s inevitable dissolution. You found the idea of leaving D.C. not as hard as you thought. There was nothing to leave behind but tainted memories.

Being around Rogers, Romanoff, and even Agent Hill made it feel as if you weren’t leaving everything behind. When Wilson said you were a great fit for the team, _very loudly,_ over celebratory drinks, you felt terrified. You felt hope.

_Team._ _Group._ _Friends._ The words were a goddamn minefield after everything that had happened over the past few days, but you swallowed down the fear and anxiety because you had to. The Avengers had the resources you needed if you were ever going to find Bucky again.

And you would find him, you decided. No matter what the results were.

You waited on the closed seat of your toilet, trying not to bounce your leg up and down. Had it been five minutes yet? You checked your phone, brand new because your old one had never been recovered.

One minute to go.

You were a bundle of frazzled nerves, a strange mixture of anxiety and anticipation. You just wanted to know, one way or another, before you gave yourself an ulcer over possible _what-if_ scenarios. You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about it ever since your period hadn’t arrived on time. Sure, an irregular cycle coming off of birth control pills was normal, but there was the chance it was due to something else entirely.

At the time, with the impending crisis of the launch, HYDRA revealing itself to the world, and Rumlow’s hideous betrayal, you had had bigger things to worry about.

For the past twenty-four hours, all you had _done _was worry.

The phone timer chimed next to your head, causing you to jump. You quickly shut it off and rose to your feet. You leaned against the bathroom counter, closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. And then you opened them.

One red line. Not pregnant.

The air went out of your lungs and you held yourself up on the edge of the sink. You didn’t know what you were feeling exactly, but there was a lot of it.

Relief? Sure, there was a big helping of that. It was to be expected, but there was also a tiny kernel of disappointment in your chest. Now that _was_ a surprise.

With a troubled frown, you took the test stick and threw it in the trash. It was better this way. You didn’t know Bucky. Not really.

You rubbed the back of your neck, irritated and angry at yourself. It was stupid and desperate and pathetic to be even a_ little_ disappointed, wasn’t it? Becoming a single parent was the last thing you needed. Did you even like kids? No idea, since you’d never even thought about having them before.

Yeah, definitely better this way. Now you could focus on your new job, not to mention your covert side mission with Rogers.

As if on cue, your phone dinged. There was only insomniac who would be messaging you at three in the morning, and you wondered how many sandbags he had broken before picking up his phone. Already you were learning the patterns of your teammates.

You lifted your phone and looked at the message on the lock screen.

** S. Rogers:** **_Williams, message me back when you get this._**

You unlocked your phone and quickly typed out your response.

** _What’s up?_ **

The phone buzzed half a minute later, letting you know you had an incoming call. You answered it quickly.

_“Hi. I didn’t wake you, did I?”_ Steve’s voice drifted into your ear. It was still strange to think of Captain America as _Steve_, but you’d have to get used to it at some point.

He sounded alert, untouched by sleep, just as you’d known he would be. What took you by surprise was the background noise drifting over the line. It sounded like he was in a car.

“Nope,” you responded as you walked into the kitchen. You picked up the pregnancy test carton on the counter and stared at the cover. Glared at it, really, as if the cartoon mother and baby on the cover had done you personal injury. “Wide awake.”

_“You all packed yet?”_

You glanced around the room and sighed at the half-filled cardboard boxes.

_“That good, huh?”_

“It’s a work in progress,” you said vaguely. You chewed on the inside of your cheek, knowing Steve wasn’t calling you for an update on how far along you were on packing up for the move to Stark Tower. “Are you driving?”

He hesitated long enough to pique your curiosity.

_“Yeah, I am. I was hoping I could pull you away for a bit. What’s your schedule like tomorrow?”_

You were beginning to suspect what the call was about, but you didn’t want to get your hopes up. Regardless, you made sure your tone was even. One never knew who was listening on unsecured lines. “Probably more packing. Why?”

_“Thought maybe you could use a break and come up to New York early. Just for a couple days. Maybe see an old friend. Interested?”_

Your heart picked up speed at the phrase ‘old friend.’

“Sure,” you answered with a casualness you didn’t feel. “You can take me on a tour of your old stomping grounds.”

_“Great.”_ His normally stern voice loosened and there was genuine warmth there.

“What time?”

_“Uh…” _He sounded chagrined._ “In about thirty seconds? I just turned down your street.”_

You hoped he could hear the sigh you gave through the line. Looked like you were pulling an all-nighter, but there was no way you were going to say no to his offer. Not if it meant what you suspected it did.

“Well, in that case, I get to nap in the car,” you answered with false cheer. “And you’re helping me pack when we get back.”

_“I suppose that’s only fair,”_ he chuckled genuinely. _“See you in a minute.”_

You hung up but remained in that position, still staring at the empty carton as you reflected on Steve’s call. Someone matching Bucky’s description must have been spotted in New York. Only Romanoff and Wilson knew you and Steve were actively searching for him; not even your new boss was aware of your extracurricular project. With any luck, you would catch up to Bucky before someone else did. HYDRA may be officially gone, but there were plenty of other governmental agencies, both federal and international, who wanted the former Winter Soldier in their custody.

You glanced at the carton one last time and tossed it into the trash, your thoughts already turned toward the future and New York.


	24. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After being separated for months, you take Bucky to Central Park on Christmas Eve to show him all the sights he missed in the last 70 years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for BitchassBucky's Holiday Writing Challenge.
> 
> You're probably wondering where the hell this chapter is coming from. You'll understand by the end of it, and let me take this opportunity to say... I'm so sorry.
> 
> Chapter warnings: Mild angst, slightly unreliable narrator

December 24th, 2014

The wet pavement crunched under your boots, damp from the snow that had been salted and washed away. Locals and tourists alike were free to traverse the sidewalks without fear of falling and bruising tailbones.

Not that you were in any danger of falling. Bucky had his arm looped around yours so tightly you felt your fingers starting to tingle from lack of circulation.

“We’re _fine,”_ you reassured him for the fifth time since you’d left Stark Tower—or the Avengers Tower, as it was now colloquially called. “No one’s looking, no one cares.”

The unyielding angle of Bucky’s jaw told you he didn’t agree, his blue eyes wide and watchful as he scanned the busy streets for signs of danger.

You gave an impatient, fond huff and pulled him along. You were freezing and you wanted to finish your outing and make it back to the tower before it started snowing. Judging by the grey pregnancy of the low-hanging clouds, you doubted that would be a wish fulfilled.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he grumbled, keeping his head dipped down so his eyes were covered by the rim of his black ball cap. “In fact, it’s a stupid one.”

“We can’t stay cooped up forever,” you said with a gentle nudge of your arm. “And if you hover over Tony much longer he’s going to sic Dum-E on you.”

“Like to see him try,” he muttered under his breath. Despite the gruff and snark he doled out in equal measure, you could feel the tension in his arm ease. You were clinging to the right one, of course, as Bucky insisted he keep his left free and ready for _any eventuality._

His paranoia wasn’t completely unfounded. He may have been exonerated, but there were still people out there who had unfinished business with the former Winter Soldier. National governments with grievances against HYDRA and looking for a scapegoat, not to mention surviving cells within the organization. Pierce had been only one head of HYDRA, and the rest were proving difficult to flush out of hiding.

And of course, there was Rumlow. That particular bastard had been hanging over your head like a black cloud ever since he had escaped from the burn unit months earlier.

You shivered, instinctively moving closer to Bucky’s side. He glanced down at you, a frown touching his lips, and he only hesitated a moment before placing his arm around your shoulders.

The warmth of his touch did wonders to chase away the chill that had nothing to do with the wintery air.

The expanse of Central Park soon lay before you, everything coated in white from the bare limbs of the trees to the wide footpaths. Dozens of ice-skaters had already taken to the Wollman Rink. Red and green and blue parkas stood in contrast to the stark landscape, the skaters circling like colorful ducks on a frozen pond.

But it wasn’t the people below you were watching, it was Bucky. The taut muscles of his face had gone lax, his eyes distant and far away with the interlude of memory.

“We used to go skating, me and Becca. Not here, this place didn’t exist, but on the Lake.” He slightly tilted his head, one corner of his mouth turning upward. “Steve was too delicate back then, couldn’t skate with us. Besides, with how many layers he would be wrapped in, he woulda looked like a penguin waddling on the ice.”

When you remained quiet, he flicked his gaze downward and found you already watching him.

“What?” he asked, moving his left gloved hand through his hair in a sheepish gesture.

“Nothing.” The little smile on your face couldn’t seem to disappear, even when you tried to squirrel it away. “Come on.”

You led him down the paths deeper into the park. With the previous day’s snowfall, everything was covered in a gentle blanket of white, looking every bit like you were in the middle of a fairytale.

Bucky had a deeply traumatic relationship with the cold, which was why you checked on him frequently, but his blue eyes were round with delight, not terror, as he took in the sight of the winter wonderland. Something loosened within you and you breathed a little easier, but you were ready to abort the mission at the first hint of panic.

Soon you were at the Carousel, nestled inside a squat brick building. You were relieved to see it was open—not because you thought Bucky would ever go for a ride, but because you wanted to see his reaction to the historical attraction.

As the ride came to a halt and the current riders began to disembark, he edged closer to the edge of the path, his head tilted at that curious angle again as he looked through the snow-covered foliage to the open windows.

“This… this is different. But also familiar? Am I… misremembering this?” He sounded unsure, his brows pulled into deep creases as his lips formed into a pout.

“Nope.” You slightly lifted your chin, unable to keep the slight pride out of your voice. “The carousel you remember burned down in 1950. This one used to be in a trolley terminal in Coney Island until they moved it here in 1951.”

The way his face lit up, his eyes brightening as his eyebrows shot up, made the whole trip worthwhile.

“The West 5th Street Depot! I remember it!” he said, a slow but excited grin blooming on his lips. “I miss those noisy old streetcars. Steve and I used to…” He trailed off, the lightness of his expression slowly vanishing, as if it had never been there to begin with.

“What?” you asked, suddenly afraid you had triggered an unpleasant recollection. You knew strolling down memory lane was a risk, but you’d thought the benefits would have outweighed the negatives. Now, you weren’t so sure.

Bucky turned toward you, but instead of his face being drawn and pale, he wore a self-conscious grimace.

“Here I am, going on and on about the past, when…” He haltered again and teethed at his bottom lip. You knew it was a nervous gesture, but it always made you a little hot under the collar. This time was no exception.

“What?” you prompted, forcibly pulling your gaze up to his eyes. “What is it? Something wrong?”

He shook his head with a rueful pull at his mouth.

“That’s just it.”

Bucky reached down and took your left hand in his right, looping his fingers through yours. The unexpected gesture made your heart sing like a bird.

“Nothing’s wrong.” His eyes softened, and you didn’t miss the flush of his cheeks. “Everything is… good. Too good to be true.”

Clearing your throat, you shook your head and said, “I haven’t even showed you the best part yet.”

His brows rose in a dubious slant. “That right?”

“Mmhmm.” You pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you smiled. His gaze dropped toward your mouth, and the heat of his stare was enough to melt all of Wollman Rink.

With your hand still in his, you tugged playfully, pulling him after you. “It’s not far!”

Bucky’s lips were pressed into a deliberate line, but the laughter was bright in his eyes, unobscured by troubled memories or moments of self-doubt, and he tagged along after you quite willingly.

It was only when you were within sight of the skating rink that he slowed his pace, forcing you to shorten your own footsteps. You turned back to tease him for being such an old man, but the words died on your lips.

Bucky’s eyes were fixed on the frozen surface. You had been at a safe distance before but were much closer now, and you didn’t think you were imagining the pale shade of his skin.

“No skating,” you said, preemptively and firmly. When he appeared unconvinced, his jaw as tight as a snare, you wrapped your arm around his waist, purposefully pulling his focus to you. It worked; Bucky hard-swallowed but met your gaze, his eyes slightly wide.

“Promise.” You slightly squeezed him against your side. “You’re gonna like this.”

Bucky simply nodded his head, the implicit trust in his eyes more meaningful than any words he could have said.

With a small smile still on your lips and your gloved fingers still intertwined with his, you led him up a curve in the path to a small concession stand. Baby blue wood with painted white trim, it looked like something from a bygone era, much like the man standing next to you.

The smell wafting toward the cart, however, was familiar to you both. By the time you had finished waiting in line and both took your cups of hot cocoa, Bucky had gone red around the ears, no doubt remembering the last time the two of you had shared hot chocolate. The vivid memory forced you to duck your head and focus very closely on your steaming cup.

There were children around _for Christ’s sake._

Still without saying a word, you carefully hooked your right arm around his left. Even through the thick fabric of his sleeve, you imagined you could still feel the cold titanium underneath.

Bucky eyed you out of the corner of his vision, his gaze reproachful but immediately forgotten when you pulled him down to sit beside you on a bench cleared of snow.

The view was impeccable, on a slight hill overlooking the rink, and beyond was the tree line with the grey clouds and skyscrapers framing the background. Even in the dreariness you could see the hulking outline of the Avengers Tower, rising and disappearing into the cloud cover like a dream.

“Wow,” Bucky breathed out, capturing your sentiment of the view perfectly. Except you weren’t looking at the skyline.

“Right?”

He turned his head and caught you staring, but all you offered in response to his raised brow was a half-shrug and a mischievous little smile as you tucked back into your cocoa.

As you sat in comfortable silence, just far enough from the rink for the sound of laughter and voices to be muffled and distant, it began to snow. Crisp flakes drifted down, just to immediately melt on the bend of your knee. The soft whiteness of the world around you was a comfort and brought up only fond memories. You wished that were the case for Bucky.

Despite his warm jacket, a tremor ran down his shoulders. You switched the cup to your left hand, and without hesitation, plunged your right deep into his jacket pocket.

Bucky gave a start, opened his mouth, and then closed it promptly when you pulled yourself closer, purposefully melting into the curve of his side.

“It’s snowing, I’m cold, and you don’t need this pocket. Thought I would grab it for myself.” A smirk pulled at your lips and you added, “Unless you want to share.”

Bucky’s deer-in-the-headlights expression would have been funny if it hadn’t tugged at your heartstrings so fiercely.

He brushed the tip of his tongue over his lips—you still couldn’t figure out if he knew the effect it had—and his Adam’s apple plunged as he swallowed.

“All yours.”

His cheeks had a ruddy tinge to them by time he averted his eyes and turned back to his steaming drink.

Despite your teasing, sticking your hand in his pocket and sidling up to him was as far as you were planning to go. It had been a while since… Well, your feelings hadn’t changed, but they might have on his end. Bucky had been on the run for months, and your time together before that could be counted in hours.

A very_ intense_ time, as short as it had been. A time when you had gotten to know the Winter Soldier almost as well as you’d gotten to know Bucky Barnes, and you couldn’t lie and say it hadn’t been a hell of a rough beginning.

You could _also _say you were moving slow for his benefit, and you were, but you also didn’t know how to bridge that divide created by time and distance.

Apparently, Bucky did.

He spoke your name, softly but without any of his previous nervousness. When you turned your head, opening your mouth to respond, he was right there, and you didn’t even have time to blink before his lips were on yours.

They were just as soft as you remembered, a heat behind them that could melt the deepest snows.

Hot cocoa forgotten, you parted your lips, an invitation, as you curled your fingers into his long hair.

Bucky’s strong arms were around your waist in a second, pulling you closer and lifting you into his lap. Your fingers tightened in his hair and he groaned low in his throat.

You didn’t care who saw, you’d let Bucky do whatever he wanted to you, right here in front of New York and God and whoever else wanted to watch because you needed him like you needed air, and it had been _so long—_

“Agent Williams?”

_No, no, not now._

“Are you awake, Agent?”

_No! Go away!_

You rolled over onto your side, giving a frustrated groan into your pillow.

“Ah, good. Mister Stark wishes to know if you’ll be down soon. Shall I inform him that was a yes? Or a no?”

You mumbled into your pillow and realized the AI probably couldn’t understand your resentful utterances. “What time is it?”

“It’s eight thirty-six, ma’am,” Jarvis answered succinctly.

You gave another pained groan. It wasn’t his fault Tony couldn’t contain himself like a kid on Christmas… _oh._

“God, right, I’ll be down in a sec.” You rubbed at your face as you pulled yourself into a sitting position. The dream clung to you like smoke and you couldn’t seem to shake it off.

“Mister Stark says, ‘If she’s not down in five minutes I’m gonna have Dum-E tear open all her presents.’ I believe he’s being serious.”

“I’m sure he is,” you answered with a tired sigh.

You got dressed while on autopilot, your thoughts drifting far away as you stared out the window at the grey morning light. It was snowing again, and a deep ache settled in your chest at the memory of snow settling into Bucky’s hair.

No, not a memory. A dream, but one so unfairly clear because it was _based_ on a memory. You had gone through the same motions the day before… with Steve.

Not the handholding or the flirting (or God forbid, the _kissing_), but you had taken him to Central Park in hopes of showing him everything that had changed since he’d been there in the 40’s.

The difference between Steve and dream-Bucky’s reactions had been startlingly different. Steve had still told the story about how Bucky and his sister had skated on the lake while he had to be on the sidelines. He too had also recognized the old carousel from the trolley station.

That was where the similarities ended. Bucky’s tense vigilance had been absent from Steve’s face. Bucky’s aversion of the rink had also been fabricated in your mind; Steve hadn’t seemed to care at all, even though he too had been frozen in ice for a long, long time.

The outing with Steve had been enjoyable, especially when Sam and Nat had joined you later that evening to see the Christmas lights strung around the park, but you had never stopped thinking about the person who _wasn’t_ there.

Even then, even when it had been eleven months since the events in D.C. and the last time you’d seen Bucky, you still looked for his face in the crowd and felt his absence in the hollow space beside you.

It had grown worse when you’d passed by the concession cart selling hot cocoa, the familiar rich sent sending you back to the safe house where you’d hidden with the man who had broken you free of HYDRA’s captivity. Bucky had only just started to emerge from the chilling persona of the Winter Soldier, and the scent of hot cocoa had been one of his first memories of his previous life as James Buchanan Barnes.

Steve had caught the pause in your step, noted the faraway look on your face, and had asked if you wanted to stop for some. You’d quickly shaken your head and moved on. It was stupid, _really_ stupid, but you didn’t want to share that with anyone else. Not even the man who had been Bucky’s closest friend.

Eleven months with not a single sign. You’d figured out long before now that if he didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t be. It made his absence hurt all the more.

You picked up your phone and scrolled through your messages as you did every morning. No strange or unknown numbers, just a few messages from the people waiting for you a few floors above in the common room.

** T. Stark: _You up yet? Im going to turn on the fire suppression system in your room_**

** T. Stark:_ come on no one needs more than 6 hours of sleep get up_**

** T. Stark: _Im serious Williams your shit is my shit if you dont come up in 5_**

** S. Rogers: _Don’t worry about Tony. Take your time._**

** S. Wilson: _Please save me from these man children_**

An amused smile crossed your lips before you could stop it.

There was one last message. There weren’t any words, only a single picture. Chocolate chip pancakes stacked ridiculously high, slathered in syrup and topped with sliced bananas.

You stomach immediately rumbled; Nat knew you so well.

You put your phone into your pocket, the smile slowly falling from your face. This was the first time you’d spent the holidays with people who treated you like… well, like a real family.

There was only one thing missing, and no matter how hard they tried, no one could fill the void he had left behind.

_Someday,_ you told yourself as you left your room and crossed the hall to the elevator.

_Someday, it won’t be a dream._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cries into her iced coffee while listening to "Just A Dream" by Nelly*
> 
> I'm so so so sorry. If it makes you feel any better I upset myself writing this chapter. I promise their real reunion will make up for this angst-filled travesty.
> 
> Part 2 should be coming out early 2020. Come say hi on [tumblr](https://trashmenofmarvel.tumblr.com/) and help keep me motivated because I miss talking to y'all.


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